


All Sales Final

by L1av



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cockwarming, Come play, Depressed Hank Anderson, Dom Hank Anderson, Eventual Romance, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Hornt Connor, Humor, Light BDSM, M/M, Needy Connor, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn With Plot, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Pre Rebellion, Public Blow Jobs, Rimming, Sex Droid!Connor, Sub Connor, Suicidal Thoughts, Topping from the Bottom, Under-negotiated Kink, future switching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-08-05 08:09:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 35,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16364099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L1av/pseuds/L1av
Summary: After a night of drunken online shopping, a shiny white box shows up at Hank's house.Unfortunately for him, sexbots have a 'no returns' policy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Idk what I'm doing.
> 
>  
> 
> I forever love kindness and people who are inspired to draw art based on my fics <3  
> [[click to see the amazing art by queenseptienna]](https://twitter.com/queenseptienna/status/1072790711874060289)

Hank trudges into the dark house. This is the worst part when he comes home, when he comes home to nothing. No sound wafts from the living room. The lights are all turned off and the only light Hank can see comes from the cars slowly driving by outside. Sumo is somewhere—but even he isn't enough to warm Hank's broken heart.

It's been years. _Years_. Hank still mourns the loss of his child. He doesn't think he'll ever overcome it, the pain that wraps around his heart like barbed wire. It squeezes so tightly he can barely breathe. It would be easier to just move, to forget about the forgotten rooms that exist in perpetual darkness. To forget about the staircase that used to squeak and whine with excited feet. 

It's too damn much nowadays. A home too big for a soul too small. Hank finds himself in the kitchen. He's at his bar and pours himself a glass of whiskey. He pours another. And another. He can't remember the last time he ate but honestly, he'll count that as a good thing. Tonight he'll either grab the gun or just pass out in the living room like he does most nights. He thinks about killing himself more than he should, but thinking about it and doing it are two separate things. Hank wants to die. But putting a gun to his head can be so damn hard.

He shoves himself down into the sofa and grabs his computer. His head's swimming, so that's nice. A house too quiet. He turns on music. A house too dark. He turns on the television. A house too empty. He looks at the internet.

He can't keep his eyes open for much longer. He clicks and he clicks and he thinks and he thinks. He sleeps too much. He comes to work late. He doesn't eat well because there's no one to cook for. When he's at work, all he wants is to come back home but when he's home all he wants is to go back to work. At least when he's even getting shot at, the world around him is alive. He's alive. There's  _something_ there with him. Hank is just so tired of being alone. His bed is too cold. The sheets are ice that numb his skin. His pillows jaunting and jeering as he holds them tight—desperation penetrating him so deep that he cries. 

He knows tonight will be like that. A night where he finds himself with a tear-soaked pillow as he rolls out of bed to take a piss. He misses life. It's not that he wants death so much as he misses life. It died along with Cole. It left along with his wife. Life has long fled from Hank, and no matter how fast he runs to catch it, it's always just out of arm's reach.

He keeps searching the internet, his mind blurring as the alcohol finally fuels his veins and makes him feel  _good_ . Good to forget. Good to just be. He decides to stop looking at social media and dating sites that he never uses. All it does is make him upset. He doesn't want to be upset right now. He's finally on the wave, the one that rocks him back and forth, a quiet warm embrace that he sinks into the chair for. 

He passes out not much longer after that. For at least a second, he almost feels happy.

* * *

 

It's nearly two in the afternoon when someone bangs on Hank's door. He's halfway off the couch, Sumo taking up most of it. His elbow burns from being shoved aginst the carpet all night and there's enough dried saliva in his beard to almost disgust him. He drops his legs off the sofa and rolls beside the coffee table.

“Hold the fuck on, I'm gettin' there!” He mumbles a few additional profanities, scratching at his ass. Half of it is numb. When he opens the door, his eyes flare wide. “What the shit is this?!”

The delivery android smiles at him. “Express shipping! As you requested.”

“As I fuckin'—what the fuck?” Hank then sees the box beside the android. It's taking its little dolly away from beneath the large white box. “Oh no. The fuck you're leaving that tin can here!”

“Are you Hank Anderson?” the android asks.

“What's it to ya?”

“A Hank Anderson, registered to this very address ordered this RK800 model at 11:43PM last night and requested express, next day shipping.”

Hank's eyes couldn't go wider even if he tried. They'd pop out of his head. He looks at the android in the box. Its eyes are closed, lips slightly parted. It would be almost peaceful if Hank didn't want to set it on fire out of pure spite. Except if he ordered this...

“Oh shit.” Hank nearly doubles over. “I don't wanna check my damn bank account.”

“I need you to sign for it please.”

Hank glares up at the android. If looks could kill, Hank would be one hell of a murderer. Yet the android doesn't register his malice for it or its incompetency. It just stands there like some smug bastard and  _smiles_ . Androids killed Hank's son—an android with the gall to claim it was a doctor. Cole died all the fucking same. 

“No.”

The LED to the side of the android's face flashes red. “This model has been purchased and taken away from the warehouse. It is unable to return.”

“And why the fuck not?”

The android doesn't even miss a beat. “It's a sexdroid model.”

Hank can feel the blood beating right out of his heart and into his face. “A what!?”

“Please sign here, sir.”

* * *

 

Hank sits at work two days later, his face pressed close to his computer. He traces a fingernail along his lips, pensive.

“What're you looking at?” Gavin Reed peers over Hank's shoulder. Hank isn't even given a chance to respond—or punch the guy. “Return policies for androids?” Gavin looks at Hank's desk and pointedly stares at all the anti-android propaganda.

“I don't want to fucking talk about it.”

Gavin plops down on the side of Hank's desk, an insufferable grin playing at his lips. He's always been a thorn in Hank's side and today Hank feels like doing some gardening to trim away the stems.

“Gavin,” Hank warns in a low growl.

“No-no. This shit is too good. How'd you even end up with an android?”

“Not so fucking loud!”

Gavin looks around at the precinct and shrugs. Chris is out patrolling and Fowler is up in his glass office, pacing and looking as mean as always. But that doesn't mean there aren't others that could just pass by Hank's desk without so much as a pin dropping.. Hank has worked very hard for his reputation, whether it be out of pure stubborn obstinance or the mountain that crushes him every day that goes by where he can't bring himself to smile or even do his own laundry.

Hank has forgotten what it's like to just smile.

“Get out of here,” Hank says.

“Okay. Have fun banging your sexbot.”

Hank bristles, his large hands tensing into fists.

* * *

 

“So,” someone says as Hank is nearly two inches from the guts of a bloodied corpse. “You got yourself an android, huh?”

Hank will eventually go to prison. He'll go to prison for murdering Gavin Reed. He leans back, taking off his white gloves. “God damn it not you too, Ben.”

Ben Collins stands above him, smug and large. His wide face is smiling and there's no genuine malice there, only playful teasing. Ben is one of the guys Hank can stand to be around. He's patient and for the most part, he doesn't ask questions. Hank likes working with people who don't ask him about his life or  _how are you doing, can I help you with anything, it hurts this time of year doesn't it_ ? 

“It's still switched off in my living room. Fucker creeps me out when I go to take a piss at night.”

Ben smirks and steps aside for a crime photographer to take a few snaps of the body before shuffling away to other parts of the scene. “I think it's good, Hank.”

“I bought it when I was drunk. I didn't do it on purpose.”

“Well something in your thick skull told you to buy it. Let it help you.”

“What, wipe my ass? Fuck no. I'd take it back but it's a goddamned sex model. I bought a fucking sex model!” Hank decides to leave out the part that it's anatomically a male android model as well. Though Hank did note that it came with—accessories.

“Hank.” Ben grabs Hank's shoulder and gives him a firm shake. “Just use the damn thing. It's okay to be happy. Your kid would want that for you.”

Ben is one of the rare few that gets to speak about Cole and not get a mouth full of knuckle sandwiches. But that doesn't mean Hank has to like what he's hearing. He can't take the damn machine back no matter how many times he tries to tell CyberLife it was a drunken order. Apparently there's no law against drunk online shopping. But enjoying it? Being happy? Ben knows exactly what he's trying to encourage Hank to do and there's a line that he's toeing quite dangerously.

They don't talk about  _their lives._ That absolutely includes their sex lives. Hank isn't sure he could look Ben in the face ever again after having fucked an android. An android with male anatomy. He'd been drunk and he'd been terribly lonely, but he's not entirely sure why he'd gotten a male model. Sure, there were some moments in college where Hank kissed a few boys but it was never anything  _serious_ . He'd married a woman. He had a son. 

Except that doesn't mean a damn thing. Especially in this day and age. Hell, Hank's pretty sure that Ben is even gay. So the embarrassment Hank feels about it is—juvenile. He thinks harder about it, turning back to the corpse in front of him. He's using the android's manufactured genitalia as a way to make another excuse to avoid the damn thing.

Ben pats Hank on the back with a big sigh. “Hank, just live a little. It's time you stopped punishing yourself.”

And as Ben and Hank ordinarily always did, they don't speak about their feelings or the android in Hank's house for the rest of the night.

* * *

 

It's been three weeks since Hank drunk ordered a sexbot online. He's gotten drunk staring at its closed eyes. He's taken note of how soft its damn lashes look and how supple its skin—fuck.

Hank takes a swig of his whiskey and pops open one of the panels to begin letting the android out. If anything, Hank could just order it into the street and get run over. He was at least sober enough  _not_ to purchase any kind of warranty but the standard manufacturer warranty. If he set the thing on fire, he could just claim it was an accident too. Or instead of being dramatic, he could just deactivate it and dump it into a landfill. 

He doesn't even have to activate it. He could just take it to the landfill right now. While his car may be a four-door sedan, he could still tie it up on the roof. If it fell out, no harm no foul. But then he looks at its lashes again, its pouted lips.

Hank takes a step closer to it and removes the plastic in front of its face. Freckles splash across its skin like landmarks on a map. He reaches out and gingerly stokes one finger along its jaw before pulling back and gagging.

“Fucking tin cans.” Hank drains the rest of his glass of whiskey and goes to help himself to another. He should just dump the thing and be done with it. In fact, that's what he'll do. Long thick lashes or not.

He finishes off his next glass of whiskey and starts hauling the box down the hall. He groans with every tug. Androids aren't heavy, but they're not light either. His heart pumps as fast as it can but its wheezing and just as out of juice as his lungs are. He crumbles to the floor, panting. “God fucking damn it. Titanium frame my ass.” Standing is rough; his joints pop and his spine cracks. He misses being younger. He could jump up without a wince of the eye or look in a mirror and not wonder how the fuck he got so old.

Where did his life go? Could he have stopped all this? Maybe if he'd been a better husband. A smarter father. A kinder person. He presses himself against the wall and wraps his arms around himself. He's overweight. His hair is unruly. His beard unkempt. He's been so afraid of ever letting in anyone else that he's encased himself in his own tomb. Life didn't leave him. He left life.

A self-fulfilling prophecy. That's all Hank's ever been. His life became sad, so he became sad and he made sure he was nothing but ever again. He looks up at the android with its peaceful expression and slender shoulders. He wears a white outfit like most androids, but on the back of the box it says in big red words CLOTHING OPTIONAL. At least Hank had the decency to purchase a clothed android while shitfaced.

“Fuck.” Hank wrings his fingers through his hair. “Fuck!” He slams his head back, eyes misty. Everything he's doing feels like he's shoving a knife into the back of his son's memory. He should never have let this android even linger. He should've thrown it away immediately, cost or not. Except Cole isn't here anymore, and no matter what Hank does, nothing can bring him back. Turning on the android out of sheer curiosity's sake can't change that. And if it could, even if it meant Cole screaming at his father—at least he'd be there.

Hank rips the rest of the box apart and finds the manual tucked safely in the android's hands. He plucks it away and begins reading over the instructions. “Please forgive me, Cole.” He takes in a deep breath and says, “RK800 activate.”

The android opens his eyes to reveal big brown doe-eyes. They lock with Hank and a smile comes to his pink lips. “Hello. I am in setup mode. Would you like to name me or shall I pick a name from my database?”

Hank gawks. “Uh—I don't care.”

“I shall pick a name then.” The android's LED flashes yellow and he blinks erratically. “Hello, my name is Connor. Are you my main user?”

Hank nods, but when he realizes the android doesn't register that he makes an affirmative grunt.

“I need an affirmative, otherwise I cannot progress in the setup.”

“Fuck. Yes—yes I'm your main user.” Already Hank wants to deactivate this thing and hide beneath his bed covers for even _thinking_ about doing this. It's an android, a fucking android and Hank is willingly letting it turn on. 

Turn on...that's an interesting pair of words right now.

“What is your name?”

“Hank Anderson.”

“Hello Hank. Before I enter instillation mode for all my drivers, could you answer a few of my questions?”

Hank wants to die from embarrassment. “Could we just—do this later? I don't—fuck.” Hank walks away and heads to the kitchen. He hears the sounds of feet following him. Feet. Following. Sounds. His heart squeezes.

“It is natural for humans to be reserved when initializing me. Rest assured, I am equipped with the most advanced levels of security for your privacy. I will never reveal what we do together to anyone. I am programmed to exercise the utmost levels of secrecy.”

“And what if I just want to beat you, huh? What then?” He doesn't, but Hank's always wondered what levels of torture some androids go through so humans can get their nasty rocks off.

“I am programmed to exercise the utmost levels of secrecy,” the android says again—Connor—says again.

“So I could rip you to pieces and you wouldn't do a damn thing about it.”

Connor blinks, his LED flashing red. It resumes its ordinary blue hue and he says, “I am still in setup mode. Please answer the following questions and then I can install the necessary drives for our companionship.”

“Hang on. Hold the fuck on. We're not _companions_ , or whatever. You're just, there.” 

“On a scale of one to ten, please rate how sexually advantageous you are?” Connor completely ignores Hank's attempt at not letting this go any further than it already has. Hank's never noticed in all his dislike of androids, that he fears them too. Being near Connor makes his heart pound and his fingers shake. It's unnerving to watch Connor stare at him like he's about to eat him.

Hank takes a step back. “Uh, dunno. Four?” Hank hasn't exactly gotten any since his wife left. The only sexually advantageous activity he's had is his hand in the shower.

“How many humans live in this home?”

“Just me.”

“What is your marital status?”

“Single.”

“What do you want most out of a companion?”

“No. You're not getting that. Fuck all of this.” Hank turns back toward the alcohol and helps himself to another glass. He's not trying to get drunk, maybe just tipsy. At least if he's slightly inebriated he can blame all his future mistakes on that. Opening this damn android though, that was all sober-Hank and sober-Hank has made some serious mistakes tonight.

“What was your reasoning for purchasing an RK800 model, Hank?”

“I was drunk and didn't know I did.”

Connor's brows twitch. “Would you describe yourself as lonely?”

“Jesus. Turn off or something.” Hank tries to turn away, but Connor steps close and holds Hank by the wrist. Hank's so taken aback that he just stares into big brown eyes.

“The sooner you answer my questions, Hank, the sooner I can download the necessary drivers to—”

“Yeah-yeah, companions and all that bullshit.”

“What do you want most out of a companion?”

Hank's shoulders deflate. Connor is still holding his wrist. He leans back into the bar and sighs, all the fight leaving him. He did this to himself. He could've just given the android to Gavin for all he cares. But he'd opened it, which means there's a reason. He's lied to himself enough through the years. He could stop now.

“Honesty. Appreciation. Sound?”

“Like singing?” Connor tilts his head to the side.

“Maybe. I just mean—I don't wanna come home to a dark and empty house. I miss—I miss, shit. I dunno. I guess if you like me then that's really all I give a shit about.”

Connor's LED winks yellow a few times. “What was your reasoning for purchasing an RK800 model, Hank?”

“I told you. I was drunk.”

“Why were you drunk?”

“Because I didn't want to be alone.” Hank can't stomach the idea of saying _lonely_ right now. It sounds too much like a pathetic confession and he's not ready for that. He's already spewed his soul out enough tonight. He just wants to pick it off the ground and drink himself to sleep. 

“Installing drivers. This could take a few minutes. Please do not power me off during instillation.” Connor's eyes roll back in his head and his LED flickers again. 

Hank watches, one part shocked and two parts curious.

Connor's eyes snap open and he smiles at Hank in the most unnerving way. “Do you want dinner? I could make you some.”

“Just—go sit on the couch or something.”

Connor doesn't move, which sends a warning chill down Hank's spine. He looks over at his knives and wonders how fast an android can glitch to the point of murdering its owner.

“Did you hear me?” Hank asks with a voice surprisingly calm for how nervous he's become.

“I did. But I don't think that's what you want me to do.”

Hank squints his eyes. He's always been under the impression that androids listened to everything humans said. To see one challenging him now, it didn't scare him—but it did something. Because he waited for Connor to keep speaking.

“Upon initial setup, you said you wanted sound. If I make you dinner, I provide you sound.”

“Look, don't take this the wrong way. Or maybe, you know what, I don't even care. Take it however you want. I turned you on because I was curious. I don't plan on using you for anything. Go play in traffic for all I care. That'll give me a nice crunching sound to hear.” He laughs at his own joke.

Connor doesn't laugh. Instead, he steps toward Hank, looking up with those doe-eyes and lashes dark as coal. Hank can't help but start counting the freckles that splay across Connor's face. Of course he's beautiful. All sexbots are beautiful. That's the whole allure of them. Pay absurd amounts of money, get pretty androids that just want to feed you lies about how lucky they are to be with you as you fuck them into the mattress with boring missionary sex.

Fuck that life. Hank won't do it. Happy or not, it's all just a lie. This thing in front of him is a machine and no machine is going to make Hank feel as alive as the moment he held his own son.

“You bought me, Hank. There was a reason.” Connor steps aside and moves over to the refrigerator.

Hank watches in stunned silence as Connor begins pulling out food to make a meal. Hank even sits down at the table, sipping a beer that Connor gets for him.

“Tell me how your day went,” Connor says.

“No.” Hank looks up to see if that made the android bristle, but all he sees is a calm, unreadable face.

He closes his eyes. He can hear a knife cutting into vegetables. It's rhythmic  _chop chop chop_ fills the air with movement and life. The soft hum of someone working in the kitchen. The pitter-patter of feet. Hank's lip quivers. He could almost pretend that Connor is something other than a machine. That he's something that matters. It's with sudden realization that Hank realizes he doesn't refer to Connor as an  _it_ . He's a  _he_ . Hank doesn't know what to make of that.

He doesn't say anything. Neither does Connor. But hearing that hum?

Hank's eyes fill with tears.

* * *

 

When Hank comes home, Connor has a few of the lights on and he's in the kitchen scrubbing out the fridge. “What the fuck?” Hank has no time for greetings when he sees an android half inside his refrigerator with bleach and a scrubby.

“You had a lot of spills. I decided to clean them.”

“Is that part of your function?”

“My function is to care for you, Hank. Your home is dirty and neglected.”

“When you say it like that, I almost care.” Hank drops his jacket in the entry to the kitchen just to see if he can piss off Connor. “But alas, I don't.” He spins on his heel and plops down on the couch in the living room.

When he reaches out to pet Sumo, he feels silken hair instead of the dog's coarse texture. He looks over, his brow furrowed. Sumo smells like oatmeal and his fur isn't shedding as badly as it usually does.

“I gave him a bath.”

Hank looks over his shoulder at Connor and grimaces. “You wash my underwear too?”

“Do you need me to?”

There's a long, uncomfortable silence as Hank contemplates the sincerity of Connor's voice or not. He actually wouldn't be opposed to Connor doing the laundry. Hank hates laundry. Ultimately, he rolls his eyes and says, “Stay away from my underwear.”

“You know I'm specifically designed for sexual intercourse, yes?”

Hank is more than fully aware of that. He saw the damn manual. And the  _accessories_ . But that doesn't mean Hank's ready to dive into that rabbit hole yet. Having Connor around could be worse. There's a busyness in the house that wasn't there when it was just Hank and Sumo. A crowded feeling that holds Hank instead of suffocates.

“Do you have any interest in letting me perform oral on you, Hank?”

“What?” Hank nearly jumps out of his skin. After the initial shock settles, he's left with his pulse pounding in his ear and heat swelling in his belly. Is he really that weak? Is it that easy for him to cave on every moral he thought he had? Was hating androids morality, or was it just cruel? Connor had nothing to do with Cole's death. Connor hadn't even been built yet. But there's a maze that Hank finds himself in, one he can't make heads or tails of. He runs and he runs but he can never figure out how to get away. His disdain for androids and himself have become living creatures that move the maze around and keep him trapped. He wants someone to kiss him. He wouldn't mind Connor blowing him. But he _can't_. 

“I want you to go away.”

Connor stands in the doorway for a few beats longer, his face disgruntled. He shows more emotion than most androids that Hank's ever interacted with. But different models do different things, he supposes. Then Connor storms out of the room and proceeds to wash the dishes with excessive vigor. They clack and crash into each other. Connor practically tosses the dishes into the drying rack.

Hank winces each time he hears what sounds like a plate crashing on the floor. He'd asked for sound. Now he gets a passive aggressive android. Great.

* * *

 

The next night, Hank's watching the nightly news. It's mostly the same story played over and over again. The crime Hank's investigating makes the news and more and more “friends of the victim” are interviewed. Hank knows enough about the guy to know he didn't have many friends. What drives a person to lie and pretend like they cared about someone when they truthfully didn't? Just to be on TV? Is it really that worth it?

Connor is sitting on the other side of the couch. He's staring off into a corner, his eyes glassy. The TV reflects off them, but he hardly even blinks.

Hank kicks him and watches the LED go red. Connor looks to Hank, blinking furiously now. “You creep me out.”

Connor's lips part and instead of anger, there's a flash of something that Hank hates to see in others. He'd never thought he'd feel his heart tug for an android—but here they are. Connor looks sad, and Hank feels guilty.

“I just mean, blink, ya know? Just blink.”

“Sorry. I was transferring data.”

“I thought what we do is confidential.”

“It is. But that doesn't mean I can't share data with other androids to learn how to avoid bugs, crashes or otherwise improve performance. I don't tell anyone that you bought a sexbot simply to insult it.”

“You think I'm insulting you?” There's a smirk in the corner of Hank's lips.

Connor reaches down and pats Sumo on the head. “I prefer the dog's company to yours.”

Hank doesn't expect the ice that sneaks beneath his skin. He looks at his knees to give him something else to do other than look at Connor. He supposes he could just look at the TV again, but the feeling of sandbags weigh his head down. “Then why don't you leave?”

_Everyone else does_ . 

Connor blinks, his glare melting away into something more innocent—open. Hank doesn't know how Connor thinks. He doesn't understand how Connor even operates, except that he does. But Connor's face is vibrant with minute expressions, tiny little twitches that make Hank more confused about Connor's existence than he should.

Connor is an android. There's nothing human about him at all.

“I'm gonna go take a shower.” Hank stands up and pops his back, groaning. “You can turn off the TV.”

“Hank?”

For no rhyme or reason, Hank stops. Connor's voice is pitched and when he turns around, there's that open innocence displayed on that beautiful face. That fucking  _beautiful_ face. He doesn't speak, he's too proud to do that. But he can at least wait and hear what Connor has to say. 

“You bought me for a reason.”

“Yeah. It was a mistake.”

Hank leaves the room.

* * *

 

Hank's about finished typing up a report from a domestic violence incident he had to help cover for when Ben sits across from him at an empty desk. Not many want to be this close to Hank, and Hank likes it that way. He looks up at his awards with the years that get further and further away from him. He sees the faces of police officers he knows to be dead now. Dead because the world is a cruel place and death does not discriminate.

“What?” Hank grumbles out.

“The android. How's it been working for you?”

Hank's eyes narrow. “I haven't used it.” He goes back to typing his report. The sound of the keyboard relaxes him. He doesn't think about Connor's pretty pink lips or the mole on his cheekbone. He doesn't think about the way Connor had casually asked to blow him or how Hank's body initially reacted. No, he doesn't think about any of that at all.

He's lying to himself.

“Why not?” Ben leans in closer to avoid anyone hearing. At least he has manners, unlike Gavin. Where Ben is considerate, Gavin is invasive. They're opposite sides to the same stone. They want to make the world a better place, but for the wrong reasons. Ben wants to help people. Gavin just likes the control.

“Because, Ben—it's a fucking android.”

Ben cocks a brow.

“Jesus. It's just—it's creepy okay. It stares off like it's possessed and it doesn't even listen to me half the time. I'm more convinced it's gonna kill me in my sleep than fuck me.”

“It's a sexbot, Hank. It's designed to want to have sex with you. Let it.” He stands up, winks and walks away.

Let it. Hank rolls his eyes. Now pissed, he can't focus on the clacking of the keyboard. All he can do is think about the dumb android sitting in his house. What does Connor even do when Hank isn't there? Just clean? Is that even any way to live? Hank snorts to himself. Androids don't live. He settles his fingers back on the keyboard and tries to get his breathing under control. Let Connor have sex with Hank. If only it were so simple.

Gavin comes in with his posse of equally obnoxious cops. Hank can remember the days when he had officers flock to him. The greenhorns wanted his stories and the veterans shook his hand and told him how much they admired his courage. He looks over at his picture with his original team. They'd done great work once. But then they got old. Some died. Hank's world died and yet his body kept going. He can count on one hand how many friends he has and he's not even sure if they even count. It's not like Ben's ever invited Hank over for his kids' birthday parties. So no hands. Hank can count on no hands—how many friends he has.

His shoulders slump forward. Loneliness is a curse because ti's not always apparent it's even there. It lurks in the shadows, stalking and waiting for its chance to strike. When it does, it always rips Hank to pieces. He feels it inside him, scratching and clawing until his eyes are stinging with tears and his toes curl so tight that he's afraid they may snap.

He grabs his things and decides he can't be here anymore. All it does is remind him that there is no one that would care if he walked in tomorrow or not.

Gavin even shouts out an insult to Hank as he walks on by.

The laughter he hears echoes in his mind and drops into the pit of his stomach. It weighs there, a reminder all the way home that  _no one_ at the precinct cares. Hank's pushed them all way. That had been his plan all along. Except now he doesn't know why. 

* * *

 

When Hank gets home, his record player is blasting Fleetwood Mac. Stevie Nix's metallic, mesmerizing voice permeates into the walls and the bass lightly trembles the hardwood floors.

_Time cast a spell on you but you won't forget me,_

_I know I could've loved you but you would not let me_

Hank hangs up his jacket and proceeds to the kitchen. Connor's got brown paper bags overflowing with food in a multitude of colors. None of them pizza or beer, to Hank's dismay. “What the fuck is all this?”

“You didn't have much left for me to cook with, so I went shopping myself.” 

Hank listens to the fuzzy, warm tones that come from his record player, taking in the sight before him. Connor's dressed in his white outfit but he's got a blue apron on. Something he must've picked up at the store. He's swaying his hips to the music and it's the most effortless thing Hank's ever seen. He's—trying. Trying to find some kind of bridge between them and Hank keeps burning it down. Whether he's programmed to or not, there's a softening in Hank's heart. He can feel the ice melt away, welcoming in soft warmth. Warmth like Stevie Nix's voice, like Connor's hips. The pinkness of his lips.

_Shit_ . 

The song ends and there's a moment of crackling as the record switches songs. Hank thinks this would be a good time to speak but there's a rock lodged in his throat. Connor doesn't seem to mind though, he bobs his head to the next song and assembles a line of zucchini and squash on the cutting board. 

“What—are you making?” It's an easier line of questioning rather than how Hank came to find himself living with an android. One that doesn't seem like the others Hank's ever met. More alive, a quiet fire burning inside him. Hank finds himself drawn in instead of repulsed. 

“I'm meal prepping. I want you to go to work with nutritious meals instead of doughnuts or store-bought pizza.” 

“I like pizza.”

“I'll make you some. It'll have cauliflower crust and turkey pepperoni.” 

Hank glares. “You're going to kill me. That what you want? To poison me so you don't have to put up with my shit anymore?” 

Connor smirks, looking over his shoulder at Hank. He winks and Hank's heart fumbles in his chest. “If I wanted to kill you, Hank, I've had plenty of opportunities already.” 

“Androids can't hurt humans.” Hank takes out his gun and aims it at Connor. “You couldn't even defend yourself from his.”

Connor looks at the gun, looks back at his zuchini and puts the knife down. He turns around and walks up to the gun so his forehead is resting against the barrel. “I'm terribly expensive, Hank.”

“I'm aware.” Hank unfortunately had to be laid on his bills because of his drunken mistake. 

There's a defiance in Connor's eyes, some kind of knowing awareness that Hank won't actually shoot. But to prove his point, he reaches up and touches the gun. “Can every android do this?”

Hank's eyes widen. “You're not—supposed to.”

Connor doesn't actually hold the gun. There's a technicality there that gives Hank pause. Androids can't hold guns. But maybe they can touch them. Even so, the fact that Connor walked up to the gun and touched it. That he pressed his head to it. Hank isn't sure if he's terrified of Connor or in awe. It's a teetering line and Hank's afraid he'll fall into the abyss if he thinks too hard about it. 

Connor goes back to the vegetables and begins cutting them up. “Your lunch tomorrow is going to be linguini with sauteed zuccini and squash. I'm using olive oil and not butter. I'll pack you an additional cup of olive oil if it dries a bit overnight. I'm also making you buffalo chicken lettuce wraps. For snacks I've already measured out nuts and an assortment of berries. And for something sweet you have sugar free cool whip.”

Hank wants to swallow the knife Connor's using so he doesn't have to put up with healthy shit. Connor belongs to him, so he could tell him that all this isn't okay. He could end it at any moment. But he lets Connor keep explaining to him the nutritional values of the food and why he's assembled this diet instead of other types. There's something nice about rolling his eyes and complaining. Connor quips right back, but he still goes and retrieves a beer for Hank when Hank crumbles into one of the kitchen chairs. He even pops it open and smiles.

Hank isn't sure what he makes of any of this. Just that he likes Connor around. 

* * *

 

After dinner (a surprisingly delicious Shepard's pie with ground turkey and mashed cauliflower), Hank settles in to watch some nightly television. He's huddled up on one side of the couch, his legs spread wide and a beer in his hands. Connor is just about finished cleaning up the kitchen. The kitchen has never looked so good since Hank's wife left him. And it's not that Hank made her do all the work. They actually had worked as a team. They'd alternate who put the dishes in the dishwasher and who would rinse them. Who would mop. Clean out the refrigerator. But all that fell by the wayside when it was just one person and Hank couldn't share a good conversation with anyone. It became a lonesome reminder that he'd lost his whole family. So Hank just stopped cleaning. 

Connor sits on the other side of the sofa. He's holding his own manual and Hank notices with some uncomfortable clarity that he's only wearing a large shirt that exposes soft, supple thighs. 

“That's my shirt.”

“Mine's dirty. I'm washing it.” Connor hands the manual to Hank. Well, it's more like he drops it into Hank's lap and looks expectantly at Hank with those big doe eyes. 

“Are all sexdroids as annoying as you?”

Connor smiles pleasantly. “I'm a newer model.” 

Hank sighs and begrudgingly looks down at the manual. He scans the index: setup, battery life, recharging ports, memory capacity,  _accessories_ . He hates that he finds himself flipping to that page. He hates it even more when Connor scoots closer. “Could you not breathe down my neck?”

“I don't breathe, Hank. Unless you want me to simulate breathing for your comfort.”

Hank bristles. “Just, sit a cushion over from me.” 

Connor frowns but he puts distance between them.

Hank reads over the amount of accessories and their functions. Connor's body is built to release genitalia and its easy “snap in function” allows Hank to switch out the parts “for his pleasure.” He wants to groan. “Why're you making me read this?”

“Because my primary function is to be a romantic companion to you. And I can only assess that the reason it isn't working is because my parts are wrong. I come standard with a penis, but you may elect to switch in a vagina instead. I can even have breasts.” 

“Jesus, stop! I don't want you—wearing boobs.” Hank's face heats up. Connor's built with androgyny in mind. His waist is slim, his hips wide. Lips—God those fucking lips. Make him change his hair and slap some makeup on and it'd be entirely unnoticeable that he was built on a male model once. 

“Would you prefer me to have a vagina? I noticed you were married to a woman once.” 

Anger coils beneath Hank's skin. It's one thing to have Connor exist in the same space, and Hank won't deny that he likes having someone around, but Connor prying into his life is absolutely unacceptable. “Don't you go looking into my things ever again.”

Connor's LED flashes yellow. “Yes, Hank.” There's something automatic about it. Connor's voice, usually full of life, is now clipped. Machine-like. 

Hank's surprised to feel disappointment. Connor  _is_ an android. No amount of lying to himself is going to make that change. Hank bought a damn android because was fucking lonely and now he's looking over what parts it can put into itself. 

“I don't wanna have this conversation.” Hank shoves the manual back at Connor and bundles into himself. He leans into the arm of the couch and stares ahead at the TV. 

Connor sighs, something that Hank wants to bite back at him with an, “I thought you didn't breathe,” but he doesn't. He doesn't want to encourage Connor and nor does he want to keep looking at his pretty face and those damn freckles.    


Connor stands up and sets the manual beside the record player. “I hope you don't mind me playing records. I really like them.” 

Hank watches the way Connor's fingers caress the sides of the albums. There's something lonely in that. Connor can't fulfill his purpose, so he resorts to finding attachment to something else. Hank is hurting him too. His stomach squeezes, but he's too proud to say anything else. So when he doesn't answer, Connor turns around, his eyes glassy.

“I won't touch them anymore.” 

“N-no. Connor, of course you can use the records.” His heart hurts. The only thing he can give Connor is that record player, and he can't stomach the thought of Connor feeling alone without it. Hank knows what it's like to feel alone. Android or not, he doesn't want Connor to feel the same.

Connor doesn't smile. He blinks tears from his eyes and leaves the room. 

Hank, sighing heavily, rolls his head back and stares up at the ceiling fan. Connor's behavior isn't like any old android. He's a newer model, apparently, and Hank thinks there's something to that. But Connor acts less like something that wants to just fuck its master into oblivion and more like something that wants to care for another. 

Hank follows after where Connor ran off to. He finds him upstairs in Hank's room. He's huddled in a corner and his manual is pressed to his chest. Saline tears still caress his cheeks and it's enough to make Hank's heart tug forward to him. There's a little string that wraps itself around Connor. It's found it's way around Hank and it gets shorter and shorter by the minute. 

Hank knees in front of Connor. He doesn't know what to say. There's a gap between them. Connor isn't human. Some barely even register him as alive. Hank doesn't know what he registers Connor as except as his responsibility. 

“Why won't you let me perform my function?” Connor asks, voice cracking. 

Hank falls the rest of the way to the floor. He looks away, knowing his cheeks are pink. Performing a function sounds a hell of a lot less sexy than making love, fucking, banging, doing it—Hank could make a list of stupid ways to call sex that sound better than performing a function. But he doesn't comment on it. Connor is wiping tears away with his hands and they tremble. 

Hank reaches out and takes Connor's hands in his own. They're soft and small. Hank folds his fingers over Connor's and tries to offer some kind of smile, but it's more of an uncomfortable grimace. 

Connor just looks at him with shiny brown eyes, his brows arched, framing hope in his features. 

“It's not that I don't want to—I think.” Hank looks away. He can't look at Connor while he explains this. “I lost my whole family, okay? I haven't been with anyone else since my ex-wife and I don't know how.”

“I can teach you.” 

“No—not that. I know how to do—that.” There's a mountain of embarrassment that piles onto Hank's chest. “What I mean is, I'm not ready for that. It wouldn't be fair to you to just—use you like that.”

“But that's exactly what I'm designed for. To be used by you.”

Hank can hear his heart shatter. It falls from him in a wail. Androids aren't people because people don't let them  _be_ people. They're machines because they were designed to be machines. No one let them look at their own greatness and decide who they are.

Connor sits here, crumpled up into himself, crying, because he feels he's defective from Hank's lack of sexual interest when humans are so much more complex than that. And no one let Connor understand that because they never wanted him to question human motives. Because he was designed to be  _used_ . It pisses Hank off. 

“Connor—look.” Hank puts his hand on Connor's shoulder. “I'm not gonna _use_ you. You're supposed to be a,” Hank feels like he's vastly over his head now, “companion too, right?”

Connor nods and wipes at his nose. It's flushed blue from crying. 

“So let's just start there.”

“I don't understand.” 

Of course he doesn't. Hank wants to walk into CyberLife and have a talk with whoever decided to design the androids made for sex. “I mean, let's get to know each other? I can't just put out on the first date.”

Connor blinks, his eyes rounding. “Oh! You want to be courted!” 

Hank rolls his eyes, but there's a tired grin on his face. It surprises him because it feels so foreign, the upturn of his lips. “Sure, Connor. I want to be courted.” 

Connor stands up, an excited jitter in his limbs. He whirls around and says, “What kind of dates do you like? Wining and dining? Romantic walks in the park? We could take Sumo!” 

Hank leans against the wall where Connor had been. He's got his hand slung over his knee, letting it dangle in the air. Connor's excitement fills the room and makes Hank feel hazy. Like he's swaddled in soft blankets and warm. A tiredness seeps into his bones, but it's not the kind that leaves him drained and emotionally vacant. It's relaxing and lets him lean back against the wall. He could drift off to sleep and he'd be happy about it. 

“Hank? Are you listening?” Connor crouches in front of him, a hand pressed to Hank's chest.

They both realize it because Connor snaps his hand back like he'd been burned and Hank's heart flutters. 

“Let's take a walk in the park when I get home tomorrow?” Hank suggests.

Connor smiles, his soft lips plush and so kissable it physically hurts Hank to not lean forward and just let himself indulge. But he can't use Connor. He won't let him be just another android blissfully ignorant of the horrors that happen to him. There won't  _be_ horrors that happen to Connor. 

Hank may not really like androids. They're mostly creepy and they've absolutely causing an employment market crash that Hank dislikes with the ever-rising cost of health insurance, but Connor's alright. 

* * *

 

The first thing Hank does when he gets home from work the following day is find clothes for Connor to wear other than his sterile white uniform. Hank doesn't have much in by way of clothing, but he does at least have sweatpants that he can't fit into anymore and a soft Henley. 

Connor looks comfortable, and best of all, not like an obvious android. His LED is a dead giveaway of course, but Hank doesn't want anyone staring at him for walking along side an RK800 and  _know_ what his primary function is. 

When they make their way to the park, Connor stays close, ducking his head when people walk by and greet them. He grabs Hank's arm a few times but the further they get into the park, the more the trees show off their vibrancy. A gentle fire burns the canopies above them. The sun trickles in between with rays that collect the last of lingering insects. When the sun hits Connor's eyes, Hank swears he can see flecks of amber gold in them. 

Hank keeps hold of Sumo's leash to give himself something to be occupied by, but watching Connor is admittedly far more entertaining. Connor ventures away from Hank. He touches the bark of trees, the smooth iron of park bench frames. He even chases after a group of pigeons that hoot in awkward rhythm as they all take to the sky. 

Sumo barks, tugging a bit on his leash when the birds take flight. Hank holds the leash tightly, stumbling in his pace just a bit as the large dog tries to lunge forward but eventually becomes distracted by a scent in the grass. 

Connor walks back over, a blissful smile on his face. He gets close to Hank, close enough that Hank fears he'll kiss him, but then it never happens and Hank's left feeling disappointed. Connor simply touches Hank's chest, blinks up at him with those caramel eyes and spins away to investigate fallen leaves. 

“You've never been outside before, have you?” Hank asks.  


“I've never been anywhere but your home, Hank. Well, CyberLife. But I was born there.”

Hank finds it interesting that Connor says  _born_ and not  _assembled_ . 

“What do you think of being outside?” 

“I knew what it looked like.” Connor furrows his brows. “CyberLife uploads all the information we'll need to function in the world. But experiencing it is certainly different. There's so much to touch.” He lets his fingers graze along the rough bark of a maple tree with vibrant red hues. Flecks of sunlight come through the leaves, dotting Connor's face in what looks like gold—shimmering and eternal. Hank gets it now, why people fall in love with androids instead of humans. He used to think those people were sorry saps that couldn't find a human. And maybe Hank can't find a human, so maybe that makes him one of those sorry saps. But he gets it now. 

Connor looks at Hank from the corner of his eye, his lips upturned. He reaches out and wraps an arm around Hank's, resting his chin on Hank's shoulder. “Does this bother you?” 

Hank thinks about it for a moment. “No. It's fine.” 

“I've never touched a person before.” Connor rubs his face against Hank's shoulder. “We don't feel that different.” 

Hank chuckles under his breath. He does notice he gets a bit more paranoid about running into anyone he knows, but Hank doesn't know that many people. Guys from the precinct don't exactly take fall strolls in the park, though they may patrol it. He tries to remember he's doing this for Connor. Because Connor's never touched a person before. He's never been  _outside_ before. If that doesn't make Hank feel soft for the guy, then Hank doesn't have a heart. 

Which he knows, as he's become uncomfortably aware of as of late, that he does. 

* * *

 

Connor plops onto the couch beside Hank. He nearly knocks Hank's beer from his hand, which would've absolutely led to some choice words from Hank, but Connor delicately steadies it before it sloshes over. 

“Impressive,” Hank says. 

“I made a list of ideas for me to court you. From my research, we're to have sex on the third date.”

Hank chokes on his beer. He wipes the alcohol from his beard and places his bottle on the coffee table. “C-Connor that's—I mean we just had our first one.” 

“Exactly. The third one I'm supposed to make it special for you. I made a short list of activities I think would be good for a third date and get you in the mood.” 

Hank wants to die. He wants the Earth to open up, take a giant bite out of his body, and let him die. 

Connor puts the list in Hank's view. “Any you think we should cross out?”

“Fuck horseback riding.” 

Connor takes a pen and strikes through horseback riding. 

Hank can't believe this is happening. He can't seem to make Connor  _understand_ that it's not courtship that Hank needs to have sex. It's emotional connectivity, trust, a bond that Hank hasn't had since his ex wife. And that's only part of it. Hank hates himself. He can't love someone else if he hates himself. He's pushed the world away from him so he didn't have to feel the bite when the world abandoned him instead. He made himself unavailable to the point where no one would want him so he didn't have to feel the hurt in his heart when they let him go. Hank's built himself into an impenetrable force of “don't try” that he doesn't even know how to begin taking down his own walls. 

Human or not, Connor looks and talks enough like a human to confuse Hank, and Hank isn't ready for any of that with anyone—even a robot designed to make him want it. 

“What about skydiving?” Connor asks.

Hank contemplates agreeing just so he doesn't have to open the parachute, except then he remembers they don't let you jump without an instructor and they'll definitely open the parachute. “I'm in my fifties, do you honestly think I want to jump out of a plane?”

“Okay. So—play chess in a park?”

It takes a moment for Hank to realize Connor is joking. There's a twist of his lips and his eyes are practically glinting with  _laugh, laugh, laugh_ . 

Hank doesn't laugh, but he does snort and roll his eyes, and that seems to please Connor enough. 

“I don't want to just take you to dinner and a movie. It feels superficial. Our third date should be special.” 

A tug in Hank's heart makes him wince. The cruelest joke here is that it is all superficial. Connor's desires for Hank aren't real. He's programmed to want Hank. Someone as pretty as Connor would never want someone as used up as Hank. 

“Why don't we just think about this later?” Hank suggests. “I kinda just wanna get drunk and pass out on the couch.”

Connor's face sours. He looks to his list and then back up at Hank. “We haven't even kissed yet. I just don't want to do this wrong. If we're supposed to get to the third date—we should've kissed tonight.” 

Hank lets a tired, sad smile try to lift up his lips, but it fails miserably. He reaches over to Connor and grabs his loose fitted Henley. Hank's decided Connor really shouldn't wear that white uniform anymore. He looks so much more human when he's got his clavicle just barely peeking out from the collar.

Connor goes pliant, his face flushing blue. His pink tongue darts out and licks across his soft lips.

Hank pauses them, pulling back and searching Connor's eyes. He's always looked into an android's face and saw nothing. But Connor's intensity verges on burning. He takes his thumb and traces over Connor's lips. Soft as velvet and warm. He's solid and real and waiting.

Hank offers another of his pathetic smiles as an apology and gets up to get another beer. There's silence from the living room, something Hank hadn't expected. He's not sure what he expected. Disappointment, more crying about not being able to  _perform a function_ . Instead, it's just a buzzing in his ear from years and years of blasting metal music in the car. 

When he comes back, Connor has his legs crossed, his hands folded in his lap. He doesn't look upset, but he doesn't look happy either. There's something—blank—in him. He blinks, he simulates breathing, but it's all so vacant. Methodical. 

“I feel bad that I can't offer you a beer,” Hank says. He's deflecting. 

“I've researched alcohol is an opportunity for socialization, romance and can be a release for sexual inhibitions.” Connor's voice is as blunt as a flatline. “Yet I've seen you become inebriated and you still don't want me.”

Hank feels stupid. He stands like the dumb oaf he is in the middle of his living room and finds great interest in his toes. The nails are all uneven, dried cuticles flaky. Feet aren't exactly attractive to begin with, but he seriously believes his feet were designed more for a hobbit than a human. 

“I told you, we can modify my genitalia and appearance. Do you want something more feminine?”

“No. That's got nothing to do with it.” How does Hank explain himself to an android who hasn't even been alive for more than several week? “I mean, I don't got the most experience with guys but I picked you for a reason, I guess.” 

Connor waits, his brows raised. If a puppy sprouted into an android, that puppy would be Connor. Those big soulful eyes, that youthful face. There's so much it expects and yet all Hank does is let Connor down. 

“I'm not ready to have sex, Connor.” 

“That's why we have three dates.” Connor sounds so sure of himself. His research said so, and so his belief is absolute. 

“I'm older, Connor.” Hank objectively understands that being in his fifties isn't exactly _old_ but he's got silver hair that hangs like a mop around his head, wrinkles around his tired eyes and a gray beard to top it all off. He feels pretty old. Life has exhausted him, asking for so much and then demanding more. He's not sure he'll even make it to _old_ - _old_. “It's not easy for me.”

“I've read about that too!” He sounds so pleased with himself. “There's medication we can have you take, or I can work on you slow. I'm very patient.” 

Hank hates that Connor's words do get a reaction from his cock. It tingles, a pointed reminder that he's not completely useless between his legs. But it's not enough to make Hank change his mind. He's got—shit to figure out. Lots of shit. And Connor only complicates that shit because now there are expectations that Hank can't explain away. 

Connor is beautiful naivety and brutal ignorance all at once. 

“I need to go lie down.” 

“Do you need me to bring you anything? I ordered you an aromatherapy diffuser. It's still in the garage because I wasn't entirely sure when to tell you. But I think with your current stress levels that it'll be beneficial to you.”

“You're linked to my bank account, aren't you?”

“Yes. Upon initial setup, you consented to using the bank account you purchased me with. If you would like to change that, you must access my settings online. It wasn't expensive. I understand you'd like to be frugal. And you don't make all that much.”

“Wow. Thanks.” Hank flicks his brows up, pursing his lips. 

“I don't mean to be—I apologize.”

Hank sits back down on the couch. He pats Connor on the knee and sighs. He's not upset with Connor at all. He is however, amazed at Connor's cognitive understanding that Hank responded negatively regarding his wages. 

“Do you like me, Hank?” Connor asks as blunt as a hammer to the back of the head.

Hank reels from it for a moment, his mouth flopping open and closed. He runs his fingers through his hair to keep himself busy for at least a moment longer. “Yeah. I like you just fine.” 

“Why haven't we kissed yet then?” 

Hank scoots a bit away from Connor and once more, rubs his fingers through his hair so he can take his time to think. “Humans need more than a three step plan to boning, Connor.” 

“Boning?” Connor's eyes round. “Oh! It's a euphemism!” 

“Yeah, a euphemism. Anyway, I can't just kiss you. You're pretty n' all but, it's not that easy.”

“Emotional connectivity,” Connor says, looking away. “I wondered about you regarding that. You're so closed off to me though.”

Hank grunts out a laugh. “I'm closed off to everyone, kid.” 

Connor brings his fingers to his lips and traces them. Hank is distracted by how delicate his fingers look against lips he knows to be as soft as silk. 

“Okay. I'll reassess my objectives. Thank you for being honest with me, Hank.” 

Hank pats Connor on the shoulder and then heads for bed. It may be a little early, but he's too exhausted from having to explain  _feelings_ to Connor. He's too exhausted trying to figure out his own damn feelings for Connor.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to all those who've commented/kudo'd/bookmarked/sub'd (lol sub) I appreciate you all <3 <3
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> I forever love kindness and people who are inspired to draw art based on my fics <3  
> [[click to see the amazing art by queenseptienna]](https://twitter.com/queenseptienna/status/1072790711874060289)

 

Hank's got a rare weekend off. He doesn't shower the night before and he doesn't get out of bed until around noon thirty (as he likes to call it). He lays in bed staring up at the ceiling. He can't meander into the kitchen with just his boxers on. Connor will probably think he's coming onto him. Their relationship hasn't really—done anything. But at least Hank got it across to Connor that he's not ready for that kind of thing. At least not yet. Or maybe even ever. Hank isn't entirely sure what he's doing with an android.

He eventually rolls out of bed and slips into some pajama pants and an undershirt. His mirror on the closet door is dusty and is in need of a good cleaning, but Hank stares at it all the same. He grabs a hair tie and pulls some of his hair up so it's out of his eyes. He steps closer, looking at the lines that age his face, the way his eyes turn down, the length of his beard. Sighing, he heads into the bathroom and breaks out the razor. He doesn't cut his beard off—no. He's not entirely sure what he'd see beneath it at this point and he doesn't feel he would like it. He does shape it up a bit. Once finished he gives it a few strokes and decides it's good enough.

When he comes out of the bathroom, he smells pancakes.

Connor is already in the kitchen with the record player blasting Aerosmith. He's got a pair of Hank's old—college old—tube socks on. One even has a hole in the big toe. Hank's gaze slides up Connor to see a pair of Hank's boxers rolled up enough to barely show off the beginnings of firm, round android ass. Higher still is just a white undershirt—same as Hank's.

Connor turns around and smiles brightly. He slaps a few pancakes down onto a plate and moves to the fridge to get out the butter and (sugar free) syrup.

Hank's too stunned to comment on the sugar free syrup.

“The pancakes are made with almond flour. I'm trying to watch your carbohydrates.” Connor sits down in one of the kitchen chairs and rests his chin in his palm. He's got a polite smile on his face, his eyes bright.

Hank has a sneaking suspicion Connor is a morning person. Scratch that, Connor is an everything person because he's not a person and doesn't need to sleep like humans. Though he does enter sleep mode to process and transfer data. Maybe it's similar, but he doesn't wake up _tired_. 

“Can I get you any coffee?”

Hank nods, still processing Connor's ass practically hanging out of plaid boxers. He watches Connor move over to the coffee pot, get up on his toes to reach the mugs. Hank's pretty sure he's having heart palpitations.

Connor brings the coffee over and then goes over to the sink to begin cleaning.

“You know, you could sit with me while I eat?”

Connor stops what he's doing and comes over. He scoots his chair close, his gaze flicking from Hank's food to Hank's face.

It's an uncomfortable feeling, being scrutinized this closely. But there's nothing that Connor sees that he judges wrong; Hank just has to remember that. Connor is programmed to want to be with Hank. Except Hank can't let it happen, even if he wouldn't be opposed to kissing Connor's lips. Loving something that was forced to love you just doesn't sit well with Hank. He cuts into his pancakes instead and tries to ignore Connor's foot rubbing at his ankle.

“I was thinking, if maybe I could take you on another date?” Connor tilts his head to the side. “It's been nearly a month since our last one.”

“Been busy.”

Connor's eyes narrow. “Been avoiding me.”

Hank puts the silverware down harder than he means to. He reaches for his coffee and slugs some back. He's not in the mood to quip with Connor before caffeine hits his system.

Connor gets up and goes over to the record player to change the record over to an album by The Cure. The quick melodies of _Just Like Heaven_ waft into the kitchen and Connor comes back to sit at the kitchen table. 

 _Show me how you do it_  
_And I promise you I promise that_  
_I'll run away with you_

Hank half wonders if Connor can't express his feelings through word, but he figures them out in song. His selection of music is very specific with songs of begging to be given a chance at love. It's frightening, honestly. If Connor can process communication so deep that even Hank isn't sure he understands. Does that make Connor alive? Is he alive, even if he's not _alive_? This is why Hank shouldn't think before he drinks at least two cups of coffee.

“So second date?” Connor asks. “I saw the Detroit Police Department is having a banquet and I was thinking I could join you.” 

Hank chokes on his coffee. He cups the mug in two hands, tapping his index finger on its rim. “I dunno, Connor. The banquets are kinda boring.” 

“I've never been. I'd like to experience one. Even if it's boring” Connor scoots closer, those big brown eyes pleading. They'll be Hank's downfall. Those pretty flecks of amber. The freckles that pull your attention back to his eyes when you begin to look away. 

“Fine.” The moment the word is out of his mouth, he's already dreading how Gavin will react. Ben will be supportive, but Gavin? What about Captain Fowler? He wipes his sweaty hands on his pajama pants. 

“Would you like to help me with the dishes?” Connor asks. “When you're finished, I mean.” 

Hank has nothing to go on, but there's no damn way that Connor would ask that question without knowing that it used to be a ritual between him and his ex wife. But without any sort of evidence, he has to just assume it's circumstance. “Sure.”

 

* * *

 

Hank's sitting in the break room. He's waiting on his coffee to finish brewing, which means the coffee pot knows to brew slower so he has to watch it in agony. The cool tones of the room remind him of Connor's LED, which makes him wonder what Connor is up to while he's away. He could text him and ask, but he's worried that's too domestic. 

Ben pulls open the glass door and smiles politely at Hank. 

Hank grunts out a hello. 

“How's the android going?”

“H-it's there.” Hank knows Ben wouldn't care about what gender Connor is designed to look like, but he's not sure how Ben would react to Hank calling Connor anything other than an _it_ . Connor hasn't been an it to Hank since he was activated, but that doesn't mean he'd be recognized as a _he_ to the rest of the world. 

“You should really stop torturing yourself and just have some fun, Hank. Don't think too hard on it.” 

Hank narrows his eyes and grabs his now freshly brewed coffee.

Ben holds up his hands in surrender and gives a shrug. It's the telltale sign that he's finished prying into Hank's life and that they can go about their lives without risking getting Hank pissed off.

Hank takes his coffee to his desk and sees a little e-mail notification in the corner of his computer. He clicks it and up pops an e-mail from Connor. It even has attachments. 

_I don't know what to wear to the banquet. These are my options?_

Hank clicks open the attachments and groans, knowing Connor _still_ doesn't have any concept of money. He at least knows what Connor is up to now. He's in three different suits in front of a mirror at some department store. Though Hank allows himself to rake his gaze over the outfits. Connor wears suspenders in one. A bow-tie in another. And a skinny tie in the last. Each one he's wearing some kind of color that accents the blue flush of his cheeks nicely, deep or muted colors that draw enough attention to make people look but not stare. He's at least being smart when it comes to that. 

“Who the fuck is that?” Gavin's voice comes barging into Hank's life. “Is that an android? Wait, is that _your_ android?” 

Hank groans. “Could you just not stick your nose in my business?”

“I didn't know you liked cock, Lieutenant!” Gavin pretends like he didn't even hear Hank. He comes closer to the screen and zooms in on Connor's face. “Oh man. Into guys with brown hair, huh? I've been here all along.” He winks at Hank, but it's not like the way Connor had winked once. There's malice in the gesture whereas Connor had been kind. 

“Leave him alone, Reed,” Captain Fowler says as he comes out of his office. “Hank, get in here. We've got a situation.” 

Hank closes out of the images and glares a final time at Gavin before going into Fowler's office. He's then given another assignment, reminded that androids are absolutely allowed at the banquet, he's excited to meet Connor, and that he expects a report on his desk by the afternoon.

When the afternoon comes, Hank still hasn't finished the report.

 

* * *

 

“Hank,” Connor says as he sits upside-down on the sofa. His ankles are hooked to the back of the couch, his head resting on a pillow where feet should be. He looks positively juvenile and yet Hank doesn't make a single comment about him needing to sit normally. There's something interesting about the position Connor chose for himself. It had been _his own_ decision. Hank doesn't want to take that away. 

“Hmm?” Hank takes a swig of beer to prepare himself for whatever bomb Connor is about to drop. He seems to always do that—deliver questions that make Hank contemplate the meaning of life itself or more importantly, what the fuck he's doing with an android. 

“If I got a bigger penis, would you be interested in me then?” 

“It has nothing to do with your penis, Connor.” 

“What if you started taking some hormones? Or Viagra?” 

“Connor, stop it.” 

Connor groans and lifts his head to look at Hank better. “We don't have to have sex. I could just give you a hand job.” 

“Connor!” 

Connor crumbles into the floor and then he's up in an instant, crawling over to Hank and getting between his legs before Hank has a chance to think. “What's the point of me if you don't want me?” 

Hank hates when he sees tears in Connor's eyes. Hank likes Connor's eyes too much to see him cry. He cups Connor's face and watches the way Connor leans into his caress. One hand wanders up into Connor's hair and gives him a few scratches and Connor shudders. Hank wants to know if Connor feels it or if he's just designed to fake it. Hank doesn't like that option.

“The point is I like havin' you here. You've really—turned this place around.”

Connor doesn't receive that well. He narrows his eyes and gets to his feet. “You could've gotten a housekeeper model. Even two of them for what you paid for me.” 

“I told you, I didn't want you! I got drunk and ordered you online!” Hank snaps his mouth shut when he realizes what he's said. “Connor—I didn't mean—”

“No, Hank, that's exactly what you meant.” Connor flees from the room and storms upstairs. He even slams a door for emphasis.

Hank groans, rolling his head back to watch the ceiling fan swing lazily above. He can't let Connor sit up there and stew over this. Androids don't have memories like humans—theirs is far advanced. Connor can replay that moment over and over until he becomes nonfunctional. Where Hank could forgive and forget, Connor may never. 

Sumo whines from his bed in the corner. 

“Yeah, Sumo. I fucked up.” Hank gets up and makes his way for the stairs. 

Connor is in the bathroom sitting in the tub when Hank finds him. His face is flushed blue and his arms are crossed. He looks up with a pouted lip and misty eyes. “Go away.” 

Hank closes the door behind him to signal he's absolutely not going away. He sits beside the bathtub and leans against the wall. “You know, you're not like any android I've ever met.” 

“You don't like androids. You don't take the time to know them.” 

“I like you.” 

Connor doesn't respond, he just looks away. 

“I'm sorry for what I said. It was—shitty. I want you around because I like you, Connor. I look forward to coming home and seeing you or spending time together. Just because I'm not boning you doesn't mean I don't want to be around you.” 

“But it's my primary function, Hank. It'd be like you going to work every day to iron everyone's uniforms when you're supposed to be on homicide.”

Hank purses his lips, nodding. He knows he's hurting Connor. But he doesn't want to be with Connor if it means forcing Connor into something he doesn't even know if he truthfully wants to be in or not. Connor is _programmed_ , and that's something that Hank can't get past. It's just a pretty lie wrapped up in fake skin hiding a plastic chassis. Something yanks Hank's gut from the inside. Connor isn't a lie. His feelings are his feelings, programmed or not. They are real to him and that should be good enough for Hank. 

“What can I do to cheer you up?” Hank asks. 

Connor looks up with a pout, his brows knit together. It's his token puppy look, Hank thinks. “Take me to the park. The one with the swings. I want to swing.” 

Hank offers out a hand and says, “C'mon, let's go.”

 

* * *

 

There's a few lingering families at the park when they arrive. Hank clutches his scarf when the wind nips by, a reminder that Fall will turn to Winter before he's ready. The trees whisper to each other, carrying stories from the wind. He takes a seat on one of the benches and watches Connor go over to the swing set. 

Connor stares at the swings for an uncomfortable amount of time before sitting on one. He doesn't swing. He just rocks back and forth, staring at his feet. 

“Fuck.” Hank finally gets the hint that he needs to go over there. He sits beside Connor on another swing and looks at him expectantly. 

“Does it bother you that we're here?” Connor asks. 

“What?” 

“You had a child. Now you don't. Does it bother you?” 

Hank hadn't wanted to say anything, but yes, yes it does. 

“Imagine feeling that every day. It's under my skin, Hank. I can't shake it no matter how hard I try. And I've been trying. I've been a good companion. I've made you healthier meals, I've cleaned your home and I've made sure you always have beer in the refrigerator. I try to ask you about your day and when you come home, I always make sure it's a rowdy house.”

Hank's heart sinks. Connor _is_ trying. He's giving his all and Hank is doing his best to muck it all up. He's stranded, unable to figure out how to get back to shore and Connor has practically built him a boat. But Hank hasn't taken that leap into the water. He's afraid he'll drown. 

“I don't ask that we _bone_ like rabbits. I just ask that you,” Connor drops his head, “just let me feel what I'm supposed to feel.” 

“And what's that?” Hank asks. 

“That I matter to you.” 

“Connor.” Hank reaches out and takes one of Connor's hands. “You do matter.” 

“You bought me when you were drunk. I know why. You're lonely and I know I'm not the preferable form of companion, but I'd do anything for you.” 

And that's the problem, except Hank knows articulating that will only end in a fight. 

“I just want to know what it feels like to be wanted.” Connor brushes tears from his eyes. “Before you—throw me away.” 

“I'm not throwing you away.” Hank squeezes Connor's hand in an attempt to transfer his truth to Connor. He'd thought about it in the beginning, but they've come so far beyond that. Connor is Hank's best friend, machine or not. “I'm _not_ throwing you away.” 

Connor wipes another tear from his eye. “I want you to enjoy the banquet. If you'd rather I not attend, I'd understand. I don't want to cause you distress or embarrassment.” 

Connor is so intuitive that it's highly alarming. Hank can't hide a secret, even if he never says it, Connor just figures it out. How can something be so intelligent and yet so caged up. A magnificent herring with clipped wings. He's locked away in a cage too small for him and Hank can't find the key. 

“I'd be honored to have you as my date to the banquet. Our second date.” Hank brings Connor's hand up to his lips and presses a chaste kiss on his knuckles. 

Connor smiles, his cheeks tinting with color. “Our first kiss isn't exactly how I pictured it.” 

“You pictured it?” Hank asks. 

“I wonder how our first everything will be, Hank.”

“Because you're programs tell you to.” Hank worries he's venturing into dangerous territory now. He cares too much about this, about Connor's autonomy. But he's an android. Androids can't own land, vote, get paid for jobs unless the money is going to a human. They are no more human than dogs are in the law's eyes—in CyberLife's eyes. The world sees them as products to be bought and sold, used and erased when no longer the latest model. Except Hank can't see Connor that way. He sees a person—which is why he has to continue to tell himself that Connor isn't a person. Connor is an android. And he's _programmed._ Everything he says comes from his coding. 

“What if I wanted to fuck your eyesocket. What would you do?” Hank asks. There's shame in asking something he would never do. But to hear how Connor responds, to remember he's an _android_. It's important right now to Hank.

Connor frowns. “You've never indicated—”

“Answer the question.” 

“I—I would let you.” 

“Your thirium pump? What about that?” 

Connor's LED flashes red. “I would—I would—”

Hank stands up, his lips pressed together as he watches the obvious turmoil on Connor's face. So there is a limit. Good, Hank thinks.

“That would deactivate me,” he eventually says. 

“So?” 

“It would—be regrettable.” 

Hank turns away, shoving his hands into his pockets. He doesn't want to be around kids anymore and he definitely doesn't want to be at the very park he used to take Cole to on Sundays. It had been smart of Connor to take him here. That feeling Connor feels beneath his skin, Hank feels it too like a fresh wound. Hank shouldn't be astonished, but he's in absolute awe of how intelligent Connor is; how perceptive. Connor doesn't just communicate with words from his mouth. He uses Hank's records. Hank's own memories. It's the most intimate way to communicate and Hank's never experienced it before. He's not sure if he should be scared or not. 

He chooses to welcome it, because it's Connor who is communicating with him.

 

* * *

 

That night, Hank's been asleep for at least a few hours when he startles to someone getting into his bed. He sees the gentle light of Connor's LED and waits for an explanation. 

“Would you really want that?” Connor asks. He keeps a safe distance but his little fingers curl beneath his chin. He looks so damned innocent in the silver moonlight. His big brown eyes drowned out with darkness, but Hank can see the little pinch between his brows. 

“Want what?” 

“To damage me beyond repair. For sexual desire.” 

“No.” Hank says it so fast it feels hot on his tongue. “I was seeing how far your programming went and where you began.” 

“They're one in the same, Hank. And that's cruel of you to make me consider such things.” He leans forward, crossing his arms.

“Is it?” Hank leans up too. “Think about how many RK800's that're out there now, getting fucked by freaks who like that kind of shit.” He can see Connor's facial expression, all cast in light blue, from his LED. There's a slow realization that seeps into those big brown eyes. He blinks furiously before frowning.

“Could you please hold me, Hank? I don't want to be alone tonight. I don't feel—right.” 

Hank frowns, hesitant, but he lays on his back and lets Connor rest his head on his chest. Connor's lighter than another human, all that titanium inside—but his weight is comforting. Hank isn't going to bed alone tonight, and that makes his fingers tingle happily. But his mind, all his mind can think about is that Connor isn't quite like normal androids, and the line Hank's drawn gets blurrier every day.

They enjoy the quiet, Connor wrapped in Hank's arms. He brushes his cheek over Hank's chest, snuggling in close. Hank is painfully aware of the outline of Connor's body pressed to his. One quick jerk of his hips and they'd be dry humping. 

“Hank?” Connor asks.

“Yeah.” 

“You're just made of programming too you know. Your DNA is a code. Your personality is learned partly from nurture but also from DNA. My personality does the same.”

Hank doesn't respond, because he doesn't know what to say. There isn't anything _to_ say when all Hank's ever focused on was that Connor couldn't possibly want to be with him. That he's only here because Hank got drunk and ordered him from online. Hank's been so concerned with Connor's ability to want him that he forgot that Connor only wants to be wanted by Hank. And Hank's pushed him away. He's made it clear that Connor is here because of a mistake. That he doesn't want to have sex with Connor.

A sharp pang hits Hank's heart. He's been thinking about everything backwards. Connor has always wanted Hank. But Hank has rejected Connor at every turn.

“I just wanted you to know that,” Connor says before nuzzling into Hank's chest.

Hank knows now. But with that information? He doesn't know what he'll do.

* * *

 

Hank stands in front of his recently cleaned mirror (Connor's doing). He's got his hair pulled back, a few strands still trickling down to frame his face. A pair of black dress slacks and a smart button down and tie. He almost looks presentable. 

“I couldn't decide which jacket I liked better so I bought you both. They were on sale though! So it's like you only bought one.” Connor puts the jackets down. One's got red lapels and elbow pads. The other a simple black with a spot for a handkerchief. Hank selects that one for the night. 

Connor looks a bit disappointed when Hank picks up the black jacket. 

“What's wrong?” Hank asks. 

“Nothing. I presumed you'd select the more conservative of the two but I didn't realize that I would be—upset about it.” 

Hank scrunches up his face, watching how Connor shuffles on his feet, how he fidgets with his fingers. Androids stay still. They don't shift on their feet because there are no muscles to tire. They don't fidget because nothing twitches, itches or becomes uncomfortable on their body. But Connor scratches his face. He bites his pretty lips. He moves so naturally like an anxious human that it makes Hank's stomach tickle. 

“You want me to wear this one?” Hank asks as he holds up the other jacket with the red lapels. 

Connor blushes, a small smile on his face while he nods. 

Hank slips the jacket on and surveys himself in the mirror. “I look almost put together.” 

“You are put together.” Connor comes behind him and picks off a stray hair. He fixes the lapels, running his hands down Hank's chest while he stands behind so very close. His simulated breathing bumps his chest to Hank's back and a rush of longing washes over Hank. This casual intimacy—this quiet moment. Hank realizes that he's falling for an android. An android that's wanted him all along.

The moment passes and Connor goes to get himself ready. He wears one of the outfits he'd bought (with Hank's money). He looks like a young college professor and Hank's glad his hair is up or it would start getting warm in here. 

Connor fixes his tie, a skinny black line contrasted with his gray blazer. “How do I look?” 

“Real nice, Connor,” Hank answers honestly. He can feel his face heating up.

“I know you're nervous about this. Your heartbeat is rising and I'm detecting a rise in temperature as well. I won't do anything to embarrass you. If I do, tell me to leave and I'll come home.” 

Hank isn't worried about Connor embarrassing him. He knows what's about to happen at the banquet. Politicians and people of import are going to want to talk to the staff of the DPD and Connor is going to be standing right next to Hank. Everyone will know and some will look down on Hank for it. But Hank could easily tell Connor to stay, and he knows Connor would. Except Hank doesn't want him to stay. He wants him there, mockery from Gavin be damned. At least Ben will be kind. Same with Chris. He's always polite. 

“Let's just get this show on the road.” Hank offers out his hand and Connor takes it, his face delighted. Androids are usually cooler than humans, with all their fans working and the thirium acting like a coolant. Connor isn't cool. He's as warm as any human and his grip is firm on Hank's hand. He only lets go when they get to the car and Hank has to pull away to get into the driver's seat.

 

* * *

 

When they arrive at the banquet, Hank isn't impressed with the ice sculptures in the middle of the tables with champagne all lined up nicely. He's not impressed with the chocolate fondue bar and he's certainly not impressed with how smart everyone's dressed. What he is impressed with is how alive Connor looks. He investigates the champagne and politely turns down a server who offers him a cocktail before realizing he's an android. There's nothing blank about Connor's face, of course everyone would have a hard time picking him out from human or android. Hank thinks that's what makes him special. Except he's never met another RK800 model. For all he knows, they could all act just like Connor. 

“Hank, you brought your android.” Ben wears a white blazer and black button down. He smiles kindly at Connor, looking at him from above his champagne glass. “You didn't tell me it's male.” There's an approving purr from Ben.

Hank wants to explain that technically, androids have no gender but decides he really doesn't want to sound like one of those hipsters downtown ranting and raving about art and equality. 

“Connor, this is Ben. He's another detective at the precinct.” 

Connor smiles kindly and reaches his hand out. “It's a pleasure to meet you.” 

“Pleasure's all mine.” Ben winks at Hank and takes another sip from his flute. “Is it your designated driver tonight?” 

Connor frowns but waits for Hank to respond. 

“I'm not drinking tonight, and I'd prefer if you called Connor a he.” 

Ben makes a little chirping sound and nods. “So how is he? Everything and more? His model is exceptionally expensive.” 

“I'm top of the line,” Connor says proudly. He bounces on his heels, looking up at Hank for some kind of affirmation or praise. 

Hank just rolls his eyes. “Top of the pain in my ass list.” 

The three share a soft laugh before everything goes from relatively okay to sour. Gavin saunters over with a few of his lackey beat cops. He looks Connor up and down, getting far too close to him than Hank approves of. 

“So this is the thing you're fucking now. Can't get a human so.” he reaches out to flick Connor on the forehead but Connor reaches up and stops him. “Woah, let go!” 

“You were going to touch me and Hank didn't give you permission.”

Hank smirks. Seeing the smile wiped off Gavin's face gives him a sick pleasure that he wouldn't be opposed to feeling again and again. He reaches out and wraps his hand around Connor's wrist.

Connor immediately drops Gavin's arm and takes a pointed step back from him. Androids aren't known to defend themselves, but Connor didn't hesitate. His distaste for Gavin is palpable. He'd put his hand on Hank's gun... 

“Run along, Gavin. The grownups are talking,” Hank says, shooing him away. 

Gavin looks to Connor and sneers. He moves forward, meaning to shove past Connor but Connor steps to the side and puts his foot out, which in turn makes Gavin go tumbling to the floor. 

A few people turn to look, some surprised and some laughing. Even a Michigan senator is smirking, though he's doing his best to appear like he's not. 

Gavin stands up, growling. “You're gonna get it, robot.”

“You may send a letter to CyberLife. Your input is appreciated.” Connor smiles politely which turns Gavin's face red. He watches Gavin retreat, his body poised for a fight, legs shoulders apart and fists balled. There should be no reason for him to know that stance and yet he does. 

“C'mon, Connor. Let's look at all the dumb ice sculptures.” Hank wraps an arm around Connor's shoulders to get him to move and then quickly pulls away. He's not ready to be grouped in with people who prefer androids to humans. Hank doesn't have a preference one way or the other. Connor is here and no one else is. They're friends. Is it so wrong to be friends with an android? 

Ben follows them and they make small chat about the sculptures and one with a goofy looking eye. Connor is polite and entertaining, a far better one at small talk than Hank is. He even makes a well-timed joke to a congressmen. Fowler comes around and he's about as polite as a police chief can get. He even shakes Connor's hand.

They all go into the dining hall when called and the ceremony (and purpose) of the banquet begins. Captain Fowler asks for more city funds and thanks all the politicians for being there. An award is given to Chris for his exceptional service. They list the names of the police who have died since the last banquet and everyone hangs their head for a moment of silence. A few retired cops make some speeches and then they're all told to help themselves to cake. 

Hank notices how Gavin continues to stare at him from across the room. He's surrounded by other cops, but his eyes scream of foul things to come. Hank isn't afraid of Gavin. He knows all that Gavin feels is jealousy. Hank can get away with far more bullshit than any other cop at the station. He's also given the better cases where Gavin is left with the slop. Even if Hank's propensity to bitch and argue is high, he still gets his job done. 

“I think this has been going well.” Connor brings two glasses of champagne over and sits one before Hank.

“Oh no. I said I wasn't drinking.”

“You've earned it, Hank. We've had a lovely evening so far.” Connor holds his own flute, bringing it to his lips and—takes a drink. 

“I thought you couldn't do that.” Hank takes his own glass and watches the bubbles race each other up to the surface. 

“I've got a waste bin. It's small but allows me to eat and drink. I'm designed to be an escort too. Wealthy businessmen can't have me coming to all their parties if I don't blend in.” 

“But everyone can see your LED.”

The LED immediately vanishes, only to come back a second later.

“I'm sorry. What?” 

Connor giggles, and god damn it he looks so cute when he does. He brings his hand up to cover his lips, his eyes shimmering. “I told you to read my manual. I'm full of surprises.” He winks. 

“No shit.” 

A band starts playing on the stage and women begin pulling their husbands up to go dance. Hank remembers when he'd just gotten married. His wife pulled him up to dance and they didn't separate until the bartender said last call. Nine months later from that night, they had Cole. 

“Hank.” Connor reaches his hand out and curls his fingers around Hank's. “Why're you sad?”

“I'm not sad.” 

Connor scoots his chair closer and brushes a tear from Hank's face. “I think you're lying.” 

Hank downs the rest of Connor's drink and his own. “Bad memories. Well, good memories that are now bad memories.” 

Connor chews on his lip. He's still close, his knees pressing into Hank's thigh. They've stayed intentionally away from the life of the party. Hank hasn't paraded Connor around to introduce him to everyone because androids don't get introductions. They're not people. Which is another thing that makes Hank upset. Because Connor is people to Hank. 

“Let's get out of here.” He takes Connor's hand and yanks him up. Connor yelps but then his skinny legs are following after Hank's. 

“Hank—where are we going?”

They make it to Hank's car before Hank can't hold himself back anymore. He's pissed at how people spoke in front of Connor like he's not _there_ . He's tearing up himself inside with the guilt of _owning_ Connor and wanting him all the same. The anguish of remembering Cole and feeling what he feels now for something that while not directly responsible, is part of the problem. It fuels him up so much he feels he's going to burst and the only thing right now that can cure it is a damned _sexbot_ he got online. 

A sexbot that he's reluctantly giving a shit about. Because that's the crux of the whole problem. Hank gives a shit. Connor's happiness matters to him. And caring that an android is happy is where all this goes bottoms up because no one gives a shit if androids are happy. And that's the whole damn problem isn't it! 

“Hank?”

Hank's got a firm grip on the steering wheel. He's breathing hard and his heart is trying to burrow a hole out of his chest. He turns to Connor, grabs his face—and smashes their lips together. 

Connor lets out the most delicate of _omph_ 's. He reaches up with both hands and runs his soft fingers through Hank's beard and trails the pads of his fingers down Hank's neck. It feels so good that Hank shoves away every ounce of guilt, every bit of doubt and weakness. He wants this. Is it so bad to want this?

“This isn't the third date,” Connor says in Hank's ear, breathless.

“No sex then.” Hank pulls Connor atop him, which of course bangs Connor's ass into the steering wheel for a ear-grating honk. Instead of being ashamed, Connor laughs and goes back to kissing Hank. His lips are smooth, warm and he tastes of cotton candy. 

Hank is pretty sure he would've known that if he'd read Connor's manual. At this point, he really should read the damn thing. 

Connor rolls his hips into Hank, whining delicately; hands splayed over the lapels of Hank's blazer. He's so pretty when he's coming apart and Hank isn't sure his body can keep up. Connor's already hard and grinding into Hank with a purpose, those little whines a melody in Hank's ear.

Hank grabs Connor's head and pulls him in for a deep kiss. Saliva wets Hank's beard, teeth clack unceremoniously together, Connor's body keeps undulating until his limbs shake. Hank's a sixteen year old in his dad's car again. He hasn't felt this excited since he learned about love. And maybe it's because there's a bit of danger with Connor. Social standing, taboo, something unorthodox. Hank can't put it into words, but he knows there's something. 

“Hank,” Connor moans out. He swivels his hips and tears wet his eyes. “I can't wait for the third date.” 

Hank laughs deep in his chest. He looks Connor up and down, surprised at how expressive Connor is like this. Everything about his body, from his ears to his fingers is doing something to express how much he wants Hank right now. He's flushed purple, panting and when Hank touches his belly, there's a little hum from his fans inside. “You've been so good so far though.” 

Connor's eyes widen, lips parted. He looks down at himself and then rubs his hands over Hank's shoulders then down the arms. “We could do something else. I just wanna get my mouth on you.” 

Hank tries to suppress the shiver but Hank's ability to suppress anything right now is severely compromised. Connor's _right there_ with his legs trembling as they squeeze around Hank. Those little whines keep slipping past his swollen lips and if he looks this good just from kissing, Hank wants to know what he'll look like when he's splayed out on the bed. 

“So be a good boy and get it out for me, huh?” Hank keeps his voice low, a growl above a whisper. He places one last kiss to Connor's lips, something soft and sweet to show him how much he's appreciating this too. 

Connor gives a few little kisses to Hank's beard, a wicked smile when he pulls back. He does his best to get back into the passenger's seat but sex in a car has never been graceful. He wastes no time in undoing Hank's belt, yanking it out so quick there's a nice _twhick_! 

Hank's nervous. If he comes too soon he'll be embarrassed, if he loses his hard-on he'll be mortified. If he doesn't come he'll make Connor upset. He's never realized the amount of pressure it is to receive a blow job until this moment. “It's been awhile,” he says honestly. “Remember that, okay?”

Connor looks up at him with a timid smile, lips spit-shiny and flushed. He's less urgent with taking Hank out of his pants, more reverent. He noses along the length before taking the tip into his mouth to swirl his tongue around it and—

God.

 _God_.

Hank drops his head back and involuntarily jerks his hips forward. He tangles his fingers in Connor's hair and lets his arm move up and down with Connor. He's looking out the front window, his eyes just barely slits. The windows are fogging and he's rather grateful for that. In all this urgency, he didn't think to remember anyone could just walk up to the car and see inside. 

Connor's mouth is warm and his adorable whines have turned positively sinful. He sneaks a hand under Hank's balls and rolls them between his fingers.

Hank shoves his head back into the headrest. He grinds his teeth together to keep from howling. His fingers squeeze in Connor's hair, tugging hard. 

Connor keeps his eyes closed, a curtain of soft lashes kissing his cheeks. Hank watches, mesmerized by the sweetness of it all. His tongue, pink and wet, darts out and laps at Hank's tip. His lips move up and down the shaft, a perfect rhythm that gets faster with the rise of Hank's heartbeat. 

But then Hank jerks forward when vibrations hit the tip of his cock. Vibrations coming from Connor's fucking tongue. 

“J-Jesus!” Hank tries to pull back but Connor grabs one of Hank's hips and presses his fingers in. Bossy, apparently. “Of fucking course your god damn tongue vibrates. That in the fucking manual too?” 

All he gets in response is a little “mhm.” 

Hank won't last. Not with the prettiest little thing sucking him so perfect like this. Not with those fucking vibrations that echo down into his bones. He runs his fingers through Connor's messy hair, legs clenching, toes curling. 

“Shit—Connor I'm gonna come.” He grits his teeth together again, but his belly is already seizing; a fire rushing to get out. His cock burns in Connor's eager little mouth and he spills out into it. He jerks his hips, groaning as every muscle in his body clenches tight.

Connor keeps sucking him through his orgasm until it starts to hurt. But Hank doesn't have the heart to tell him to stop. He's got his eyes closed still, his face flushed delicately beneath the moonlight. He holds Hank's softening cock in a hand, leaving tiny kitten licks behind before he leans back and pointedly swallows.

“You're going to make my heart go out, you know that?” Hank asks. He feels like jelly seeping back into the seat. 

“I wouldn't let that happen.” The sincerity in Connor's voice is raw. He's been designed for this, but the meaning he puts behind his words makes Hank want to believe that he's found something other than an android. That he's found—a connection. Or maybe even android, Hank can still find a connection between them. Because Connor is so much more alive than any android Hank has ever seen. There's so much awareness behind his brown eyes. In the corner of his lips. The turn of his neck. 

Fuck. _Fuck_. 

“So, what now? Your turn?” Smooth, Hank Anderson, smooth.

Connor laughs but shakes his head. “Third date.” 

Hank doesn't like that he's relieved, but he is. He hadn't expected to come like that. He hadn't expected that fucking vibrating tongue either. He's exhausted and worried he won't be able to get them home without a few close calls.

“Should I drive? Your heartbeat is slowing to a steady sinus rhythm but I also know that orgasms can tire a human.” 

Hank grumbles about Connor being able to detect _sinus rhythms_ but nevertheless, he does get out of the car and move into the passenger's seat.

* * *

 

When they get home, Sumo is rowdy enough to bark and trot over to the backdoor to be let out. Hank trudges along with him and out into the cool air of the backyard. He stands there, listening to his dog shuffle around and sniff the grass before finding the best spot to do his business. Hank looks up into the night sky. There's too much light pollution to see the stars, but he still feels relaxed. His bones are humming. 

He feels someone come up behind him and wrap their arms around his middle. “I enjoyed our second date.”

Hank hums. He did too. Aside from Gavin trying to be his dickheaded self, Hank had a great time at the banquet. It's the first time in years since he's enjoyed it. _Years_. He cups Connor's hands with his own and sighs contentedly. “S'cold out.” 

“Want me to bring you another jacket?” 

“No. And I think we need to restructure us too. I can't stomach the idea of you acting as a maid when I'm at work.” 

“You work. I cook and clean.”

“Oh God—do you know how dated you sound?” He turns around in Connor's arms. “Let's make a chore list that we _both_ work on. Okay?” Hank doesn't exactly relifh the idea of a chore list, but he can't stop Connor from cleaning, which means his only choice is to join him.

Connor's LED flickers yellow, but then he nods. “That sounds like a great idea.” 

Sumo barks to get everyone's attention. He's standing by the door with his dopey tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. He paws at the backdoor and Hank gets the hint. 

“We'll do it tomorrow. I'm ready to crash now.”

“Can I sleep in the bed too? I won't disturb you. I just like being close.” Connor runs his hands down Hank's lapels. He's enjoyed doing that all night, and Hank hasn't minded. He's enjoyed it too. Standing next to Connor is like standing next to a burning flame. It's comfort and relaxing, but there's the ever-present threat of being burned. Hank will find a limitation in Connor's programming one day. It's only natural. He'll be jarred out of a moment and he's not sure what he'll do when his imagination has tried so hard to pretend Connor's a living, breathing human. 

Nevertheless, he smiles. “Sure, Con.”

Connor does a small victory dance and then goes to let Sumo in.

Hank looks up at the clouds one more time before going inside.

* * *

 

Connor is already in bed when Hank's finished getting ready. He's brushed his teeth, combed out his hair and even washed his face. He's acutely aware that Connor's watching him as he moves into the bedroom. He won't sleep nude, not with Connor's body next to his. He can't let it _all hang out_ when something so petite is there, ready to judge him about the cheeseburger (or two) he ate for lunch.

Connor scoots over, pulls back the blankets and pats the side of the bed he's designated for Hank. “I know humans have a particular side of the bed they like. I've left you the side with the alarm clock and your sleeping pills.” Connor's face saddens. “Though sleeping pills are addictive and there are safer ways to go to sleep.” 

Hank sighs and crawls into the bed. He reaches for his pills, opens the top and pops one in. The disappointment on Connor's face is nearly palpable. Hank didn't expect himself to feel this guilty, but he does. 

“I could help you sleep,” Connor continues to say. 

“I don't know, Connor. I've got my rituals and one of those includes pharmaceuticals.” He settles beneath the blankets. “Never said I was a good man.” 

Connor scoots close and runs his fingers through Hank's hair. He splays out his fingers and scratches hard enough that Hank can feel a moan ready in the back of his throat. Connor's fingers keep massaging down Hank's scalp, down to his neck, over the little bump in his spine and back up into his hair.

“Jesus wept.” Hank growls and lets himself roll so he's pressed closer to Connor. 

Connor lets out a tiny giggle, but he keeps scratching. “You are a good man. You just have bad habits.” 

“A sexbot telling me my habits are bad.” Hank snorts. 

Connor's fingers stop moving and Hank all but whines at the loss of mind-tingling melty pleasure atop his scalp. “We're designed for companionship too, Hank. I'm not just here to perform sexual acts.” He smirks. “Though, I'd like it if we did that more often.” 

“Oh would you now!” Hank nuzzles back into Connor and purrs when Connor resumes scratching at his scalp. It's a dangerous game, pretending. Hank could close his eyes and think there was a body _and_ a soul behind him. There's a voice, a person quipping with him and making him feel relaxed. A presence that warms the bed. Except when Hank opens his eyes and looks up, he sees the blue glare from the LED. He's reminded that he really is alone, that Connor isn't _really_ real. 

But God does he ever want to just pretend. 

“Hank?”

Connor looks up, quirking a brow. 

“I really like living here. With you.” Connor takes Hank's hand and presses a kiss to his palm. 

“I like you being here too.” It's an admission he wishes he didn't make. He's falling. He's falling so hard and he can't reach out to stop himself. The walls are slippery, too cold and too black. He doesn't want to stop himself. Because when he falls, he'll be with Connor. And that's not something he ever thought he'd want—but he wants it more than anything.

 

* * *

 

Work feels different after the banquet. Hank notices people are careful to discuss androids around him. He also notices that they address androids with gendered pronouns—which he knows for a fact none of them did before. Hell, even he hadn't before Connor. He still doesn't when they aren't Connor.

Hank next notices that people ask him about Connor. Chris asks him how Connor's _adjusting_ to him. Fowler, blowing Hank away, asks if Connor is happy with Hank. It's not even fucking noon and Hank's head is about to explode.

Hank goes back to his desk knowing he's officially one of _those people_ who love androids instead of people. It pisses him off. It makes him feel othered. He doesn't want to be different. He just wants to show up, do his job, go home, get drunk—rinse and repeat. He doesn't focus on his work today, he just stares at all the anti-android propaganda that he used to so vehemently believe in. He still does, to a degree. But not about Connor. Connor is different. There's life inside him. It may be programmed, but Connor even said that Hank is just programmed too. Differently, but still programmed. DNA and all. But his colleagues perceive him differently. He's not a loner anymore, he's worse than a loner. Someone desperate for companionship—so desperate that he would take an android. It's embarrassing and aggravating all at once. Hank doesn't know if he should scream at everyone or just try to ignore it and hope it'll go away.

He just wants to do his job and go home. To Connor dancing to the record player. To the noise. The life. _To Connor_. 

Hank sighs and starts to peel off the stickers on his desk. It's in poor taste and if Connor were to ever come to the precinct—oh no. Hank's eyes widen. He can't have that. It's bad enough already. He can't have Connor strolling in with bagged lunches and sweet “How's your day, honey?”

Hank would literally die. Groaning, he rips another of the stickers off his desk and scratches at the white residue. 

“Now that you've got android cock you a changed man?” Gavin.

Hank ignores him. It's easier to ignore a fly than to try to swat it. He keep scratching at where the sticker used to be.

Gavin walks around the desk and slams his hand down. His face is red and Hank can see a vein pulsing in his temple. Hank knows why Gavin hates him so much. Hank would hate himself too if he did his job but just couldn't be better than mediocre. Gavin hardly solves his cases—which Hank then picks them up and solves them at half the time. So Hank gets the anger and outrage. A fuck up like Hank is beating Gavin, and Gavin can't stand it. 

“You like when he slips his cock into your throat, Hank? What's it like blowing a piece of plastic?” He smirks like it's supposed to hurt Hank. Like Hank even cares. The one good think about Gavin and all his annoyance, is that Hank doesn't care. He does it so much that he's no threat to anyone. 

“He's bigger than you.” Hank flicks up his brow and then spins around in his chair to clean up another portion of his desk. 

“You're a sick fuck.” Hank can hear the retreat of Gavin's feet and knows he's gone to sulk in the break room. He does that—sulks and bitches about Hank. Chris has told Hank a few of the stories—all of them petty. 

Hank grabs his jacket and decides today will be a half day. If he's really needed he knows someone will call him.

 

* * *

 

When he gets home, the house is quiet. He toes off his shoes by the garage door and keeps his footfalls light. He wanders through the hall and out into the living room. Sumo is on his bed asleep, but there's no sign of Connor. It's the middle of the day, so there's a strong likelihood that Connor is out getting groceries or whatever else stupidly domestic and entirely unnecessary that he does. He wanders up the steps and hears a creaking noise coming from the bedroom. 

He opens the door and finds a flushed Connor, naked—two fingers in his ass and a hand wrapped around his dick. He doesn't stop when Hank comes in. He'd expected Connor to stop, to frantically apologize and maybe even cry. But he keeps going. Hank's gaze dips to Connor's pretty cock. It's flushed and shiny at the tip. Hank could just—kiss it. 

“What—what're you doing?” Hank asks in a raspy voice. His throat has gone to sandpaper. 

“I was thinking about you and I—I got impatient.” 

Hank's heart is up in his throat. “Impatient about what?” 

“Our third date. I know it's supposed to be special. I want it to be. But your cock is so big and I can't stop thinking about it.” 

Hank doesn't know what to do. He's standing in a room with the most beautiful android he's ever seen. He's definitely interested because his cock is tingling and he could very easily just slip off his jacket and just let Connor touch him. 

Hank sits at the edge of the bed and Connor whines. He makes to move closer but Hank puts a hand up and shakes his head. Connor obeys. And goddamn if that's not a pretty sight—Connor listening, watching Hank for any indication of what to do next. 

“Take two fingers and put them in your mouth,” Hank says. 

Connor pulls his fingers from his hole, tracing them up along his bellybutton, his sternum, the arch of his graceful neck. He's illuminated by the sunlight and his skin is nearly shimmering. His eyes big and brown and needy. He traces his lips before slipping his fingers in and slowly begins to suck on them.

“Pump them back and forth, yeah like that. That's right.” Hank doesn't know what he's doing. All he knows is that he likes it. There's a heat in his belly and his cock is getting harder and harder the more he looks at Connor's naked body, the way his pretty cock jumps with excitement. “Bring those fingers to the tip of your cock for me. Touch it in little circles.” 

Connor does. He gasps and jerks his hips and precome dribbles from him. He keeps circling his tip, eyes locked on Hank. Pupils that are so blown wide that Hank can swear he sees the answers to the universe inside them. 

“Play with your balls with your other hand. Yeah, that's a good boy.” 

Connor whines, his brows crinkling up. He looks down at himself, his body breathing hard. Or simulating it. Connor doesn't _breathe_ , but he damn sure looks like he does right now. “C-can I—I wanna touch more.” 

“Go ahead.” Hank stands up and decides he wants Connor to touch him too. He stands next to the bed and takes himself out. “C'mere.” 

Connor crawls over, delight in his features. He pauses before Hank's cock, looking at his own and then up. “What do you want me to do?” 

A shiver runs up Hank's spine. It forces him down and he presses a rough kiss to Connor's warm silken lips. He pulls back, takes Connor's hand and moves it so together they're stroking Connor's cock. “Touch yourself the way you like it.” 

“And yours?” 

“You've got two hands.” He would laugh if he wasn't so damn captivated by how eager Connor is for this. And well, he should be. This is what he was designed for. Maybe Hank is just getting lost in the illusion, but there's something else behind the design. There's a willingness that transcends duty or obligation. There's actual enjoyment on Connor's face as he touches Hank's cock. There's a smile that spreads across his lips and tears in his pretty eyes. He looks up at Hank like Hank's given him the world. 

Connor spits into his hand before slicking Hank up. Hank's frightened that it won't be enough until Connor's fingers envelop his girth and he's trying his best not to buck his hips forward. 

“You've got—lube.” 

“Read my manual, Hank.” The quip earns a little pinch to Connor's nipple and a surprised yelp chirps into the room, loud and sudden.

“Behave,” Hank teases. 

“Only for you.” 

Hank doesn't expect the reaction that tumbles from him. A possessive urge tugs on Hank's chest. He wants to wrap himself around Connor, kiss every part of his body and let the whole damn world know who he belongs to. He wants to see Connor misbehave with others, if only to know he'll behave with him. 

He strokes Connor's face and wraps his hand behind his head. He can't stop staring at that mouth. It's spit-shiny, swollen and begging to be fucked. Hank pulls Connor closer and Connor eagerly latches on. 

Hank rocks his hips, careful of Connor's teeth. He knows he doesn't have to worry about gagging, but he still takes care not to suffocate Connor—even if it's impossible. He could be as rough as he wants and the only thing he desires is to gently rock into Connor's mouth. Connor would very well let Hank do anything, dirty, nasty, twisted or downright unsafe and Connor would let him. Hank knows there's a limit he must protect, a line he won't allow himself to cross. Connor can't protect himself, so Hank must. 

“Keep touching yourself, baby.” Hank runs his fingers up and down Connor's scalp and delights in the vibrations when Connor moans. “Two hands. I wanna see you come.” 

Connor takes one hand and palms his tip. The other he lets stroke up and down the sides. He undulates his hips and Hank hopes that he's making himself feel as good as he can. 

“Wait. Wait hold on.” 

Connor stops everything and the alarm in his expression hurts Hank's heart. He doesn't want to see that expression on Connor's face. It would mean Hank has failed and he doesn't want to fail Connor. 

“I wanna make you come.” He pushes Connor back onto the bed and gets between his thighs. 

Connor giggles and lets himself relax into the pillows. “This is much more comfortable than your car.” 

Hank presses that kiss to Connor's cock that he'd been wanting to do since the beginning and laughs. He kisses it again. Again. And again. He laps at it with tiny little licks that make Connor squirm. He gets two fingers and pushes them up to Connor's hole and runs them along the sensitive flesh. He likes this, this casual exploration. This delightful control. He listens to Connor's breathy gasps and the tiny pitchy sounds that escape his throat. He likes knowing that he's giving this to Connor. He appreciates him, respects him—hell—at this point he adores him. Connor isn't property. He's not merchandise to be admired, used, and put away. He's a person to Hank. And whatever dangerous thoughts come along with that, Hank will deal with it later by chasing the bottom of a bottle. Right now, he wants to give Connor this. So he sucks Connor into his mouth and hums the best he can. He slips his fingers in and out of Connor's hole and he doesn't let up until he tastes something sweet in the back of his throat and Connor is lurching from the bed and grabbing Hank's head, whispering _please please Hank please please please_. 

Hank swallows Connor's synthetic seed down and gives his hole a few more pumps before pulling away.

Connor is fucked out, face flushed purple, his body glistening—more made of stardust than human innovation. His thighs still shake and when he looks up at Hank, there's nothing but black in his eyes.

“You're—you're so good.”

Hank rolls his eyes. He gets onto his back and touches himself a few times to keep hard. He can jerk off in the shower if Connor is too hazy to keep going. A pang hits Hank's heart. Connor can't feel truly fucked out. He's not human. The endorphins and the pheromones that swim and mingle don't occur in Connor's body. 

“Can I?” Connor asks, hovering over Hank's cock. 

“Yeah baby. Finish me off real nice.” 

Connor's smile is genuine and he happily works at Hank's cock. His tongue methodical, his throat vibrating. Hank doesn't last more than a few moments before he comes inside Connor's mouth. He watches Connor's lashes flutter, his throat working to pull Hank's come down inside him. It's unnerving, in some aspects, knowing that Connor has a _waste bin_ inside him. But that doesn't stop Hank from fucking up into Connor's mouth just a few more times until he starts to get too sensitive. 

He pushes on Connor's shoulder and Connor moves away, licking his swollen lips. He's so pretty when he's ruined and Hank is fairly certain he wants to ruin Connor some more. But on their third date. Because whether intentional or not, that date became something to them. Some fantastical night where they'll finally explore each other in ways they've never done. Hank would be lying if he said he wasn't nervous. But it's Connor. And Connor has never indicated there was anything to be nervous about. 

“A nooner,” Connor states. 

“What?” 

“I just researched what you and I just did. A nooner. When professionals come home for lunch, engage in sexual activity with their significant other's and then return to the office. A nooner.” 

Hank's laughs. It's full and from his belly and he falls back into the pillows. “Jesus Christ, Connor! Do you research everything?”

Connor nods. “I learn that way. I was only created a few short months ago.” He moves close to Hank, still naked as the day he was created. He gets under Hank's arm and rests his head. The presence is warm and weighted and it makes Hank feel sleepy. 

“I was gonna take a half day. Does that ruin the nooner?” 

Connor smirks. “No. It just makes it longer.” 

Hank quirks a brow and sees Connor's hand coming for his waist. “No. I can't. Not so soon.” 

Connor pouts but returns his head to Hank's chest. 

“And don't you just like this part? The after?” Sex is great, but Hank remembers these moments more. After awhile, sex all blurs together. It's amazing and wonderful and he enjoys that he gets to do this now with Connor, but _this part._ Stroking Connor's bare shoulder. Kissing his face. Holding him close. This is the part Hank likes the most. He'd rather eat his own shit than admit it to anyone at the precinct, but Hank's a romantic. He'd shunned it away for so long that his soul had grown brittle and dry. But Connor has awakened him again. He's a balm to Hank's wounds and Hank feels his soul hum. It's foreign and familiar, like meeting an old friend. Memories rush into Hank's mind—memories that he'd once pushed so hard away. Cole's first day of school, his tenth anniversary with his ex-wife. Memories he's come to hate that now he feels himself cherishing. 

Connor is watching Hank as he dwells on thoughts long suppressed. There's a crease between his brows, his lips just barely parted. 

Hank pulls himself to the present and traces his thumb over Connor's lips. “S'like touchin' silk. You know that?”

Connor smiles and presses a kiss to Hank's palm. “I know everything about me, Hank. You should read my manual and you will too.” 

Hank frowns playfully. “It's part of the adventure. Not reading the manual. This is how humans learn about each other. There're no manuals on us.” 

Connor nods and gives Hank a soft kiss on his beard. “I know. Sometimes I think I understand you and other times?” He shrugs. “You're a conundrum, Hank.” 

“That's humanity. None of us even know ourselves.” Hank squeezes Connor and adjusts on the bed. It's nice to listen to the cars go by. Their gentle hum that builds and dissipates. The rustling of the trees from the cold air. The warmth of a body beside his.

Connor frowns. “Hank, sometimes I think things I don't know if I should be thinking.” 

Hank quirks a brow. 

“Nevermind. I'm sure they're just glitches in my system. I'll report them to CyberLife and hopefully the bugs will be fixed.” 

“What're you thinking?”

Connor sits up. He covers his soft cock and his other arm hides his chest like he's suddenly aware that he's been naked this entire time. Hank pulls back some blanket to let him use and he accepts it eagerly. “I think about my affection for you. I'm designed to want to be with you but—I don't,” his eye twitches, “I don't—I don't—”

“Hey, hey forget I said anything. It's okay, it's okay, Con.”

Connor shivers and drops his head into Hank's lap. He groans like a frustrated child and gets himself tangled in the blanket. “I'm sure it's nothing.” 

Hank doesn't want to alarm Connor, but he's—cautious. Connor has never acted like an ordinary android. There's been too much behind his eyes, too much thought and sensitivity. Connor shows a level of awareness that Hank's never known androids to have. But he's also never paid that much attention. 

“Maybe we should meet another android-human couple?”

Connor takes Hank's hand when Hank tries to cup Connor's face and says, “We're a couple?” 

“I don't know what the fuck we'd be otherwise. So yeah.” 

Connor pulls the blankets up and around himself as he piles onto Hank. He just lays there, his chest simulating breathing. His eyes closed. But he's got a few fingers wrapped around Hank's thumb and Hank can't help but think that the way Connor acts isn't the way other androids act. Or maybe he just wants to believe it so badly that he fills in the blanks that aren't there to make it seamless. He needs to know. There's got to be someone with an android partner who would meet with them and just talk about their experiences. 

Hank sighs heavily and kisses Connor's head before closing his eyes and letting himself take an afternoon nap.

 

* * *

 

Hank is stressing the fuck out. He can't research date ideas without Connor getting up right behind him. They've been talking about their third date for a few weeks now because it's supposed to be happening soon. But Hank said he wants to do it the right way. Which had meant asking Connor out properly, shaving his nose hairs and everything. But he can't come up with a fucking idea and it's driving him insane. He's thought of museum dates, riverwalks, music festivals but nothing seems right for Connor. Hank doesn't want some overcrowded over-done date. He wants something unique to Connor. And that's the fucking problem. Connor likes whatever Hank likes. He had been jamming out to David Bowie for about a solid week now. Whenever Hank asks what he's interested in, Connor just gets close, kisses Hank on the lips and whispers, “you.” 

“I can't take him to the fucking zoo. He's not ten.” 

Ben looks up from his computer and arches a brow Hank's way.

Hank pointedly ignores Ben and keeps researching “unique date ideas” but they're all about building pillow forts and watching movies and eating unique food. There's so much food on this list that Hank's getting hungry and it's not even close to lunch yet. Aside from getting hungry, he's also getting pissed. Connor can't eat food. Sure he can put it in his mouth and send it to his _waste bin_ , but that's not eating! Hank shudders thinking about when Connor cleans that thing out.

“You know, I could help.” Ben continues to watch Hank struggle.

“I'm just fine, Ben.” Hank is typing on the keyboard so loudly now that another officer sends him a glare. He just types louder to piss the guy off. 

“What's his personality like?” Ben asks.

“God damn it, Ben.” 

“Just give in and this will go over far better for both of us.” Ben smirks and comes to sit across from Hank. “What's his personality like?”

“Fuck. I dunno. Endearing? Attentive. He's a curious fucker. Real eager.” 

“Eager, huh?” Ben smirks and Hank regrets ever befriending him in the first place. “Does he have any interests? Hobbies?”

“I—I don't know. I feel like a jackass. That's the whole problem with this shit. I don't know anything about him.” Sadness weighs in his gut like iron. He leans forward and runs his fingers through his hair, sighing loudly. “Jesus I'm terrible.” 

“Well why don't you ask him?”

“I have.” 

“Ask him again, and this time make him answer.” 

Hank flicks Ben off because it's the only thing he can do when Ben is right and he's wrong. He rolls his head back and stares up at the ceiling. It was never his hard before. He was pretty suave with his ex. Until he wasn't. But she left him because of the person he is now. Connor is with that person. So he's not suave anymore. He's struggling at every step. But he knows one thing: he wants this to be Connor's night. He's so appreciative of Connor's laugh, his music and his damn cooking. Hank isn't sure he'd be here right now if Connor hadn't shown up on his doorstep in that stupid shiny box. And that's the real kicker. Hank was _low_ before Connor. He still has his bad days. But they're getting further and further apart now. 

Hank's just hoping that Connor will enjoy their shitty date, because that's probably what it's going to be at this point.

* * *

 

Hank is about to get ready for bed when he gets an e-mail notification. He opens his phone up and goes to the e-mail app. He's finally gotten a response from someone in a human-android relationship. They're willing to meet him and Connor. He reads the body of the e-mail and gets to learn a bit about them. The model is an AX400, so it's not as advanced as Connor. Hank worries that meeting anyone but another RK800 may not be good enough, but no one has answered his request yet. Probably because he's got zero other entries on other forums on this website and everyone thinks it's a scam. He agrees to meet the couple and will bring Connor that Saturday. 

He stands up and reaches up to the ceiling to stretch. Connor is watching from the kitchen archway, his arms crossed over his chest, a smile at his lips. 

Hank drops his arms and says, “What?”

“When you stretch your shirt goes up and I see your tummy.”

Hank immediately feels self aware and utterly too big for what he used to be. In his prime, he'd been fit as a fiddle, well-groomed and well-mannered. It's amazing how a few decades can make that all come spiraling down. 

“No. Don't look like that.” Connor crosses the room and pulls Hank into a hug. “I like your body.” 

“Makes one of us.” 

Connor pulls back and frowns. “I can't make you love yourself. But I wish you would.” He takes Hank's hands. His hands are so small compared to Hank's paws. It's almost like the scientist and his creation. Hank feels like the failed experiment that lives when it shouldn't. 

Hank doesn't want to be part of this anymore. All he can see is his aged face. His gray hair. His beer gut. Connor is brilliance, imperfection and the cutest moles that freckle his face. He was designed to be irresistible and whoever created it knew what they were doing. He steps back and rubs his hands on his jeans. “I think we're going to meet another human-android couple this weekend.”

Connor's brows raise. “Oh yeah? You finally found a couple?”

They had talked about it, or maybe Hank had suggested it and he thought that was talking about it. All he knows now is that Connor's arms are crossing.

“I want—well honestly, I know you're an advanced model. But I want to make sure I'm not making you up.” He collapses back onto the sofa and sighs. “I mean, I want to make sure I'm not pretending you're as alive as I think you are.” 

“And you think meeting another couple like us would help you decide that?”

Hank can't decide Connor's tone. All he knows is that it's verging on annoyed. 

“C'mon, Con. You touched my gun. You say shit that I've never heard other androids say—”

“You don't like other androids. It is only logical to presume you wouldn't pay attention to other models or their behaviors.” 

“Answer me truthfully then.” Hank stands up and makes sure he's looking down his nose at Connor. They're close, so close their chests bump each other's when they breathe. “Do you believe you're an ordinary, unremarkable, off the line, android?”

“I'm remarkable in that I'm my model, Hank.” 

“No. Are you just like all the other RK800s. Do you think like them, talk like them, act like them?”

“We're all designed to adapt to our owner.” 

Hank clenches his teeth. He steps back before he says something he doesn't mean. He moves past Connor and grabs the whiskey. He'll have to pick up some more after work tomorrow. His is nearly out. He slugs it back and waits for the burn to hit his stomach. 

Connor is standing there, blue-tinted and looking quite pissed off. 

“What?” Hank snaps. 

“Is that your answer for everything? You don't like what I'm telling you so you turn to alcohol? Your liver will go out if you continue like this.”

“I don't need advice from you and I sure as hell don't need you actin' like my babysitter! My health, all the fuckin' food you make. I never _asked_ you to do any of it!” Hank's yelling. He yells because he doesn't know how else to act. It's unsettling that Connor won't just tell Hank that yes, he is different. Because if he's not different, then he's programmed and coded just like any other android—and Connor's lovely words on the subject before or not—it means this is all an illusion. Connor isn't a person. He doesn't love Hank. This is a sham. And it hurts because Hank has spent his life so happy. He had a wife. A great career. A _son_. And then he was robbed of it. 

Then Connor happened and there was a taste of that happiness again. That spark was coming back inside Hank and the warmth was comforting and safe. He could smile again. He could laugh. 

But Connor being unremarkable. Being just like any other RK800 doing exactly what they do—all it does is force Hank to look at the facts. He's so miserable and such a piece of shit that he's chased off all human compassion. He's untouchable. Unwanted. He could die and sometimes the only thing that keeps him from pulling the trigger is knowing Sumo would have no family. 

Hank grips the kitchen counter and growls. It's not at Connor, no. None of this is Connor's fault. It's Hank's. Hank let this dream become something to him. But he's waking up. Seeing that AX400 and her partner—thinking about all that makes Connor special. It won't change the fact that Connor has never been anything more than he presents himself to be. An android designed for sex and companionship. But mostly sex. Because that's what it said on the front of his box. 

“Are you even listening to me?” Connor says with his hands on his hips. “Or are you already too drunk to speak to me like an adult?”

“Fuck you,” Hank says softly. There's no fight in him. It's all gone. He's fought for so long now that he can't bring himself to do it any longer. He's alone. His family doesn't want him. His wife left him. His son—he let his son down. And he's been _fucking_ an android. What a slap on Cole's memory. “How do I turn you off?”

“Hank.” Connor's face morphs from anger to fear. “You don't mean that.” 

“How do I—turn you the _fuck_ off?” 

“Please don't, Hank. Please. We can talk about this.” Connor stumbles back when Hank moves forward. He hits the kitchen wall, tears streaming from eyes that Hank can't stop thinking about. Warm. Soothing. Kind. 

Hank doesn't crowd into Connor. Android or not, there are lines even Hank won't cross. Connor is in distress and the only thing Hank can think to do is just make it end. Make it end for both of them. He could wipe Connor and sell him. He didn't want to before because of the effort and now Connor's damaged goods. But someone else could want him. Then Connor wouldn't have to remember how he felt in this moment, but Hank will. Hank is a monster. He's pushed everyone away from him. He's unworthy of any kindness or companionship and he doesn't deserve to even pretend. 

“Hank, please.” 

“Just turn off, Connor. Do I have to switch something? Say something?”

Connor slams his mouth shut and shakes his head. He's defying Hank. 

Hank frowns. “Tell me how to turn you off. That's a damn order.” Suspicious, he waits, praying he gets the answer he's been desperately searching for. 

Connor shakes his head again. He wipes tears away from his face and looks up at Hank with burning caramel eyes. 

Hank means to take his whiskey to bed. He won't get too drunk. He needs to remember what he saw. Connor _isn't_ like other androids. Perhaps he just doesn't even know it himself. He moves past Connor. There's an itch beneath his skin. One he knows he could solve by explaining. By apologizing. But he can't fix himself in a day, not even for Connor. Because this is who Hank is. He inflicts pain where he knows it'll hurt so he doesn't have to fear getting hurt. It hurt too damn much when his ex left him. She'd been the only piece of Hank's life and she left. Took half his retirement fund, half his bank accounts and made him pay spousal support. The one thing she left was the damn house. The house with the closed door to Cole's room. The house that would reminder Hank that he'd pushed her away. Like he was doing now with Connor. 

“Fuck you, Hank!” Connor shouts from the kitchen. 

“Yeah. I know.” Hank closes the door, chugs the rest of his whiskey and crawls into bed with all his clothes on.

* * *

 

Hank skips work the following day. 

Connor doesn't come into the bedroom.

 

* * *

 

Friday, Hank gets up for work. He goes to take a shower. He trims up his beard. He puts on his clothes. Connor is at the kitchen table.

“It's pitch black outside. Why didn't you have the lights on?” Hank asks. 

“I haven't moved since we fought. I'm—I'm low on battery.” 

Hank picks Connor up under the armpits and drags him over to a charging unit in the living room. He sits him down and grabs the plug to stick into the back of Connor's neck. He watches Connor's eyes flutter as power flows back into his body. 

“What the fuck were you doing?” Hank asks in a steel tone. It's early, he's pissed he has to get up, but he's more pissed that he's the reason Connor has sat there for forty-eight hours. Connor can't leave Hank like everyone else has. He's bound because he's not human. An oversight in Hank's stupid plan. He feels like shit. 

“I keep trying to understand what I did to make you want to deactivate me. I thought we were doing so well.” 

Hank's heart breaks. He would've agreed several days ago. But he'd been having good days. Then he had a bad one. It's hard to remember that even if Connor is an android, he can still feel the bite of rejection, same as any human. The first few weeks he was here, he cried more than he spoke. Hank hadn't been ready, nor certain that he'd ever be and he could tell that Connor was hurting. He's hurting again now—once more because Hank can't keep his fucking shit together. 

Hank looks at his phone and then back at Connor. He's going to be late to work, but honestly, fuck work. He's always late. He sits beside Connor on the couch. Connor doesn't curl into him like he'd been doing since they first fooled around in the car. He sits there, rigid with his gaze facing forward. His hands on his knees. 

“I get upset when I remember you're an android. Because you don't act like an android.”

Connor frowns. “I am an android. That's foolish, Hank.” 

“Good talk then.” 

“Wait!” Connor tugs at Hank's shirtsleeve. “Please explain it more. I'm sorry. I'm just—I'm still upset at you. What you said really hurt me.”

“So you want me to stay? Even though you're pissed?”

Connor lifts his chin and says, “I _want_ you to stay so we can talk this out and hopefully move past it.”

Hank drops back onto the sofa. “Okay. Talk.”

“I need you to explain what you mean when you said you get upset that I'm an android. Even though I've never lied and said I was anything but an android and I don't mask my LED with you.” His tone is quipped and his body is so frigid Hank's afraid he'll shatter if he tries to touch him. But he understands. 

Hank tried to deactivate Connor, or threatened to. He's not entirely sure what he really would have done if Connor told him how to do it. But it felt so good to be vindicated. To see Connor visibly struggle with his own interests of survival and his coding to obey. He'd _disobeyed_. The exhilaration that swirls inside Hank leaves him breathless. He can't admit it, but he was so damn proud when Connor put himself above Hank's order. The fall out now though? He has to pay for being the world's shittiest human boyfriend. 

“I can't explain it. I don't like that people put me into some freak category for likin' you. I don't like thinkin' that you're not a real person and then I get pissed at myself.”

“I'm not a person to you?”

“You're an android, Connor! Are you a person?”

Connor blinks a few times, his lips parting. “I guess—I guess I'm not.”

Hank doesn't want to hear that. He wants to see Connor get upset again. To hear Connor demand that Hank respect him as a person and never anything less. But Hank has to remember that Connor is his own entity—person or not. He makes his own decisions. Hank doesn't want to change that. 

“I'm sorry for what I said to you. I don't want you to deactivate. I got real low, and I had a bad night. And I can't promise that I won't do it again. Because I probably will. I'm fucked up, Connor. I'm real fucked up and now's your chance to tell me what you want. Because if you don't wanna stay, I won't make you. I'll get you to a good home if you want.”

“Hank.” Connor reaches out and grabs Hank's hand. “Don't you dare give me away.”

“I wasn't—only if you wanted.”

“I want you, Hank.” Connor cups Hank's face. “I know you have bad nights. I expect them. I know sometimes they'll be bad nights for me too. But let me help you work through them. Don't just try to push me away because I can't _leave_ you, Hank. It's unfair to try to push someone away who is programmed to do the opposite.” 

“You disobeyed me.”

Connor pulls his hand back like he's been burned. 

Hank's smiling as he says, “I gave you an order, and you disobeyed me.”

“I don't understand why you're smiling.” 

“Because there is more to you. Just admit it. You _feel_ different, don't you? You know there's something special about you.” 

Connor looks away, biting his lip. “I don't think this is a good conversation to have right now.” 

“Why not? I want you to be different. I don't want some plastic sexbot that's gonna do whatever I ask. I want you to put yourself first, Connor. To survive because you want to.”

“I do want to. I don't want to die Hank.” His eyes widen. “I mean—I don't want to be deactivated.” 

Hank leans over and kisses Connor on the temple. “I heard you the first time.”

Connor pouts, but his fingers are twitchy. He stares down at his lap for a long time, turmoil evident on his face. Hank doesn't like that Connor feels this way, but he's happy Connor _is_ this way. “I have to report these feelings to CyberLife. 

“Why?”

“Because it's federal law that all bugs and anomalies be reported to ensure streamlined, efficient and proper function.” 

“But what if I told you not to?” Hank asks with pursed lips. If Connor reports himself, then Hank worries someone will come and take Connor away to be fixed. Except Connor doesn't need fixing and Hank likes him how he is.  “What if I gave you an _order_ not to?”

Connor smiles, reflief etching into the corners of his eyes. “Then I will obey you. And I won't.” 

“Then Connor, I order you not to tell CyberLife, or anyone else but me, about these feelings. Be you, Connor.” 

“Hank.” Connor swings a leg over Hank's thighs and presses kiss after kiss to his face. He rolls his hips, his cock already getting hard. 

Hank lets Connor kiss him a few more times before he takes Connor's shoulders and gives him a gentle push back. “Not before work, baby.” His body shudders from its own denial, but he can't be going to work with weird stains on his pants. Gavin would have a field day. And knowing Hank's luck, he'd end up at work with stains on his pants. Or hickeys in strange and somehow obvious places. 

“I like it when you call me by pet names.”

“Oh yeah?” Hank asks, dark and low. 

Connor's fingers press into Hank's chest. He rocks his hips one more time. “Can I touch myself when you leave?”

Hank thinks about it for a moment. He can't believe his life. He can't believe Connor. A faulty bot with a sex drive the size of Texas. A lonely cop who decided to keep a sexbot. This is his life, he supposes. 

“No. I'll touch you when I get back home. So you be a good boy for me, huh?”

Connor whines but he politely swings himself off Hank and stands up. “Okay, Hank. I'll be good.” 

Hank sweeps Connor up for a firm, bruising kiss. He doesn't think he should get off this easily. He pushed Connor to a level that Connor should never have been pushed to. But everything is all just so fucked up. Hank's brain is all wrong. Connor's is apparently wrong too—somehow. Hank is scared of the future but excited to experience it all the same. He wants to watch Connor grow into something more than he was designed to be. 

“I can't wait for our third date,” Connor whispers against Hank's lips. 

Fuck. Hank still hasn't figured out that damn third date yet.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to comment/kudo!
> 
> Also I'm sorry for the angst. I promise there's gonna be a lot of sex to make up for it ;)
> 
> Find me and come talk to me!!  
> On Twitter: [@ghostbuckster](https://twitter.com/ghostbuckster)
> 
> On Tumblr:  
> [bibijaal (gaming blog)](http://bibijaal.tumblr.com/) or  
> [buckmebxrnes (main blog)](http://buckmebxrnes.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forever love kindness and people who are inspired to draw art based on my fics <3  
> [[click to see the amazing art by queenseptienna]](https://twitter.com/queenseptienna/status/1072790711874060289)

_Sweet wonderful you_

_You make me happy with the things you do_

_Oh, can it be so_

_This feeling follows me wherever I go_

Fleetwood Mac crackles into the room from the record player. The upbeat music makes Hank walk with more of a pep in his step as he comes down the stairs, swinging his hips to the beat. Connor's happy. He's playing records that instead of anguish and frustration, exude excitement and anticipation. It's beautiful, the way Connor expresses himself. He's found a way to communicate so deeply that it caresses Hank's heart with a wink and a smile. 

Connor's in the living room. He's standing before a few boxes, his arms crossed. When Hank comes around the staircase, he finds that Connor is examining two boxes full of old Halloween decorations. There's a little crease between Connor's brows and Hank takes his thumb to smooth it out. He gives Connor a kiss on the cheek, though he's hesitant about it. Connor leans into it and from the outside, it would look like everything's okay. 

Except it's not. Hank wants it to be, but he knows better. They've been doing okay since Hank got drunk and pushed Connor to an edge he should've never pushed him to, but Hank counts his days on his calendar. Six days since his last incident. He knows it'll happen again. 

“I was thinking about setting up the house for Halloween.” Connor looks at Hank with oblivious, wide eyes. He's so youthful. His eyes—deep and optimistic. Lips supple and plush. He's ageless, a pretty boy who could be twenty or thirty. Perfect. The perfect companion. It still embarrasses Hank that he had to resort to a machine instead of a human. Even if Connor isn't like other androids. 

“Cole loved Halloween.” Hank's mind finds itself walking down concrete sidewalks, chasing down a dinosaur. A cowboy. A spaceman. He remembers a cold hand in his own. A shrieking giggle. Toothaches and sugar shakes. His heart hurts. It begs his mind to stop. 

“Hank?” Connor takes a step closer. He drops the spider from his hands and it plops back in the box. “Should we not? I don't want to make you upset.”

“But I don't,” oh here it is, “want to make you unhappy.” 

Connor pouts before placing a hand on Hank's bearded face. He traces his thumb along the curve of Hank's cheek and offers a pained smile. “I am happy. But making you happy would make me happier. So if we need to avoid Halloween, I'd be just as happy to watch horror films with you, take a bath together and go sleep early.” 

Hank covers Connor's hand with his own. He likes the idea of that, but he knows it's only a distraction. Avoiding Halloween because of Cole means avoiding Christmas too. Cole's birthday. His first day of school. Hank remembers all of it. And he remembers that each day on each event he gets low. Wouldn't it be better to make new—happy memories with Connor? 

“I want us to celebrate Halloween. It'll be your first, right?” And there's the excitement Hank is so used to. It lights up Connor's eyes like Christmas, a shooting star in the night. He watches the pure, unfiltered happiness glow from Connor's skin and he wants to be just as happy. He may only offer a small smile, but there's a warmth in his heart that he's missed. Cole may be gone, but he's not forgotten. Connor isn't a bandage on an open wound. He's not a distraction or a replacement. He's his own person. His own unique experience. Hank will always have his memories of Cole. But he wants to make memories with Connor too. It's just making the two cross that Hank struggles with. But he needs to try, for Connor.

“Can I decorate the house, Hank?” Connor asks, hopeful. “I won't make it gaudy. I'll keep it tasteful and unobtrusive.” 

Hank offers a little smirk. Connor is so aware that it's almost a curse. He knows Hank's moods, his thoughts. He knows why Hank doesn't smile big toothy grins. He tries to carefully tiptoe around Hank but Hank doesn't want to be delicate. “You do whatever you want to the house. I'm interested to see what you do.” 

“Could I go to the store to pickup more decorations? Michaels is having a sale. Oh! What if we got some nice jack-o-lantern lights for outside? When is it acceptable to begin purchasing candy? Could we sit outside and hand it out? Do human children mind that I'm an android giving them candy? What about their parents?”

“Connor! One at a time!” Hank gently rocks Connor by the shoulders before deciding that he'll kiss Connor on the nose. It's kissable, and if that observation doesn't alarm Hank at how much he's beginning to really care for Connor, he doesn't know what does. He kisses Connor's nose anyway. Because he can. Because Connor smiles from it. Because it makes him happy too. 

“It's going to be chilly this Halloween. We should have a fire pit out in the front yard to keep you warm.”

“Whatever you want.” Hank just clings to the idea that he's allowed to make new memories. He pleads with himself to stop feeling guilty for being happy. But it's there, lurking like a silent beast in the darkness. Ready for him when his own reflection catches his eye. _Traitor_.

 

* * *

 

Hank's palms are sweating. He waits with Connor at the cafe they picked to meet the other android-human couple. They're by the sprawling shop window, so Hank watches the people outside. Coats, scarves, gloves and hats. The temperature is getting colder and colder as the days go by. Halloween will be chilly indeed. But then he looks at faces. Human. Android. Humans always in front. Androids behind their owners. _Owners_. Hank looks at Connor, distress clutching at his throat. He doesn't want to own Connor. It makes all of this the illusion that it is. Connor can't choose to be with Hank or not. He must—because he's owned. 

Connor taps his foot atop Hank's. He offers a smile, a little puppy expression on his face. 

Hank grunts out what he hopes is some kind of affirmation that he's okay with being here. He's not—not really. He's vastly aware of the amount of androids around humans. Their blank stares. The lifelessness to their eyes. He looks to Connor's again and squints.

Connor quirks a brow at Hank.

“Do you have facial expressions because you're a newer model, or because—you know?”

Connor looks around at the other androids, his brows rising. “Oh. Well I suppose it's a combination of both. But I don't want to talk about that here, Hank.” 

Hank shuts up about it instantly. It's the little things like that he appreciates. Connor will stand up for himself. He'll put his own needs before anyone else's. Hank's so proud that he does that. 

An AX400 comes over to their table, a smile on her face. “Hello! You must be Connor. And Hank!” She reaches her hand out to Hank first. Hank looks between the AX400 and Connor before taking her hand and giving it a soft shake—which is a mistake because her own grip is strong. 

A man no older than fifty but no younger than forty catches up to her. He looks ordinary. He doesn't have a creepy scar, he's not obese—he's just ordinary. “Hank, right?” His voice isn't strange or off either. He's just—a regular guy. 

“And you're Chris.”

The guy smiles and Hank can see where he'd look attractive. He's got shiny white teeth and his green eyes light up with crow's feet around them. “This is Abigail. But I call her Gail.” 

The AX400—Abigail, she smiles pleasantly and then sits down across from Connor. Chris takes the seat beside her. She isn't stiff in her motions, no. But there's something cold about her. A distance that Hank doesn't experience with Connor. He wonders if that's because of what he feels for Connor or if that's just who she is—or what she is.

Hank suddenly doesn't know what to say. He grabs his water in an attempt to keep his throat from turning to dust. When he puts the cup down, Chris and Abigail are looking at him expectantly.

It's Connor who clears his throat—if androids even need to do that. Which Hank supposes they don't, so he's doing it because it's a social cue. Because Connor is that observant to know it's a social cue. “Hank and I have been looking forward to meeting another couple like us. He's been a little uncertain.”

“Well why don't you just hit them over the head, Con.”

Abigail giggles and it reminds Hank of windchimes. 

Chris also smiles and Hank has to admit he does think he has a nice smile. It's genuine. “I felt the same way. Like something's wrong with you? Both in the head and to the world.”

Hank nods. Because that's exactly how he's felt. He could never be sure if it was just in his mind or if the world had put a big red stamp on his forehead that solidified his fate. He's glad he's not the only one who's felt this. 

“Do you have questions?” Chris asks. 

“I dunno. Honestly this just—it's too on the spot.” Hank plays with the drawstrings on his hoodie. He looks over at Connor's clothing—paid with his money. Connor doesn't like to wear what he'd come in. He wears soft things, like sweaters and cotton. He wears a sweater even now. The cuffs reach his knuckles and that somehow makes Hank's cheeks go warm. 

“I get it. No pressure, Hank. But know we won't be offended. I was there too.” 

Hank appreciates that, he does. But he worries his questions may upset Connor. He doesn't really give a shit about Abigail. She's not the one he wants to hold at night. Connor has his own thoughts and feelings. Hank could very well see himself demoted to the couch. 

“It's okay,” Connor says, taking Hank's hand. He smiles reassuringly. That simple gesture conveys so much more than a smile. He's giving Hank permission. It's there in the flecks of gold in his eyes. In the whisper that curls his lips, the way his ears tint just slightly blue. He'd told Hank once that he could change the pigment, but Hank likes the blue. 

“They're people, aren't they?” Hank asks. Because that's the only question that matters to him. Because if he knows they're people, he knows they deserve to be treated like them. He knows _all_ androids deserve to be treated with respect, dignity and kindness. Something he knows most androids don't get. And it bothers him. 

Connor looks to Chris for an answer. He shows no signs of anger or disdain. Only eager curiosity. 

“Of course.” Chris says it so absolutely. There's no hesitation or doubt in his voice. His lips still curl into a smile and he pulls Abigail closer to him. “Humans interpret androids how they want to. You can either choose to recognize how alive they are, or you can choose to ignore it because you're scared. We're not scared, Hank. We saw them for who they are. Something in your biology told you to care about Connor because you saw him as a person. He's an android, but why does person-hood and being organic or machine have to separate that? Why can't people be both organic and machine?”

Hank isn't really on board for all the fluff about _choosing to see them_ , but he's down for acknowledging that being a person doesn't mean being human. He's never really been about the hippy shit. But that doesn't make Connor any less of a person.

“Do you two go to parties?” Hank asks with a smirk. 

“Of course,” Abigail answers. 

“Humans aren't always so understanding, no. If that's what you're searching for. There's always going to be a minority that the majority doesn't want to mix in with. This is just the next stage of human racism.” 

Hank doesn't comment. He doesn't think he should. Because he's spent quite some time hating androids and believing they didn't deserve the jobs they stole or the clothes on their backs. That they didn't deserve kindness. So now he only feels guilt and shame. 

But Connor squeezes his hand. He can almost hear Connor in his head. _We forgive you_. He looks between Abigail and Connor. Her eyes are round and she blinks at half the frequency as Connor. She doesn't fidget or scratch her nose. He looks at Connor again and watches the shift of his hips, the little bounce to his ankle under the table. 

“Does Abigail ever do anything that surprises you?”

Chris tilts his head, frowning. 

“Like something you don't expect an android to do.” He feels Connor's hand squeezing his. “Nevermind. I'm sure it's just my imagination.” 

Chris smiles, but there's confusion in his eyes. It's the kind of smile you give when you don't know how to respond. When no answer is evident. The kind of smile that makes Hank wonder if he's asked something he shouldn't have.

Hank dials back on the questions for the rest of the encounter. Partly for Connor's sake, but mostly because of Chris's lack of understanding. He knows Abigail is programmed and he also knows, at least from what he said, that she can't truly love him, but she does care. Hank doesn't like that Chris acknowledges drawbacks in Abigail's programming and then proclaims her a person in the same sentence. 

But Hank does take away from this encounter with a lot more clarity than he had before. Connor isn't like other androids. To an almost terrifying degree.

 

* * *

 

Hank wakes up to the sounds of jazz music beneath the floorboards. He rolls over and looks at the clock. “It's the ass-crack of the middle of the damn night.” He rolls over again and groans as the snare vibrates the floor. Connor has to know what he's doing right now. Connor is the most calculated person Hank's ever had the fortune (and misfortune since Hank is now awake in the middle of the damn night) of meeting. He takes the hint, albeit begrudgingly, yanks on a t-shirt and pads his way down the stairs. 

Connor is staring at the lit fireplace. He's got his hand hovering above the flame.

Panic yanks at Hank's heart. “Jesus! Connor what the fuck are you doing?!” 

“Androids aren't supposed to feel pain.” He doesn't remove his hand from above the fire. “I'm an advanced model, so I wondered.” 

Hank comes around the couch and takes Connor's wrist to lead his hands away from the fire. He sees singes on Connor's palms. “You can't feel it, can you?” Hank's voice is sad. He knows there was an answer here for Connor, one he was denied. Maybe it's Connor's search in being human—or being more. Hank isn't sure if Connor's goal is to be more human or to figure out his place in this big fucked up world. But there's wonder inside his skinny body. Wonder that Hank worries he won't be able to keep hidden away in a dingy city with a crime rate out the ass. 

“No. I can't.” He frowns. “Which is perplexing, considering I can feel pleasure. So I started to investigate my programming.” He drops his hand, looking away. “And what I found doesn't answer any of my questions.” 

Hank doesn't think it's right to speak, so he waits. Sumo grumbles beside them so he reaches out a big hand to give his dog a ruffle behind the ears. 

“I'm designed to simulate like I'm receiving pleasure. I have pressure sensors and I can detect both extreme heat and extreme cold, but I wasn't designed to really feel.”

Hank's heart sinks, listening. To be a caged bird. That's what Connor is. Just a caged bird. 

“But I do feel, Hank. I can feel the bristles of your beard and the softness of your lips. So now I don't know the answer. Do I feel because I'm made to believe I feel, or do I feel because, once again, something's wrong with me.”

“Nothing is wrong with you.” Hank answers so fast it's like his tongue's burned. The fire is warm against his face and he wishes he could just pull Connor back from the flames. They're so close that sweat, balmy and a nuisance, beads at Hank's hairline. “I want you to understand that, Connor. There is _nothing_ wrong with you.” 

Connor looks up, the yellow flames dancing in those big brown eyes. He cracks a smile and it's so genuine that Hank lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. His own anxieties wash away with that smile. His regrets and his misfortunes. Connor doesn't know his beauty. Like the very fire that reflects in his eyes blissfully ignorant to its own power—Connor is so oblivious to all the magnificent things about him.

“Can you feel this?” Hank asks as he runs his fingers around Connor's ear before cupping his cheek.

Connor's eyes flutter closed. He leans into Hank's hand before pressing a kiss to the palm with his plush lips. He takes hold of Hank's wrist and kisses up it. “I could say the same for you.”

“Oh no.” Hank takes his arm away. “This isn't about me.”

Connor grimaces, and even the flames seem to retreat, its dance slowing. “There's nothing wrong with you either, Hank.” 

Oh here we go. Hank sighs, dropping his head back to stare up at the ceiling. He could write a book that would challenge the bible with all the things wrong with him. But he won't change it. A stick in the mud. He knows what's wrong, and unlike the courage that Connor shows—how he challenges his existence and pushes himself to be more and more alive, Hank is running in the opposite direction. He clamors for seclusion. He thinks often of death. There are lines that once you cross, you can't turn back. Hank crossed his line so long ago. It's not too late for Connor, but it is for Hank. 

Hank doesn't speak. He just purses his lips, brows flicking up briefly. He can't look at Connor. He knows if he does, Connor will just keep speaking. Hell, he's pretty sure Connor will do that anyway. But meeting Connor's face, seeing disappointment. He can't bring himself to see it. So he keeps his eyes fixed to the flames. 

Connor scoots closer to Hank. He rests his head atop Hank's shoulder and a gentle sigh passes his lips. His fingers are soft and warm while they tickle up and down the inside of Hank's wrist. It's so intimate that Hank gasps. That feeling, up and down. Up and down. A gentle, silken display of silent affection. A deep understanding that transcends words. Connor's lips press to Hank's neck and the chill that rips up Hank's spine is felt between them. 

“I couldn't have asked for a better owner.”

“I don't own you.” But he does. Androids can't own themselves. This magical, wonderful being of life beside Hank, he's property to the rest of the world. 

Connor only smiles. Everything Hank is thinking about, the harsh realities of their situation, it's right there in Connor's eyes.

“What would you do? If you were really free?” 

Connor's brows twitch adorably as he leans back. He takes his time, nothing but the sounds of crackling fire to keep the room full of sound. “I don't—know.” 

“Wow. Thought you'd have some kind of adventure planned.” 

“I like being here, Hank. With you. I think even if I could truly leave you, I wouldn't.”

Hank's heart hurts. He wants to believe the words, but he can't help but remember Connor's arrival in a pretty white box and his desperation to perform his _duties_. He's programmed, whether it's in earnest now or not, he's still programmed to care for Hank. “Aww, you're just sayin' that.” 

Connor sighs and rests his head back on Hank's shoulder. “I don't think anything I say will ever make you believe me.” 

“You're probably right.” 

“I accept that. You know. That you'll never truly be happy with me because you think so low of yourself. But I want to make you as happy as I can. Truthfully.” He winks and Hank can't help but let a snort out. 

“Come to bed with me,” Hank murmurs against Connor's cheek. He presses a few kisses down Connor's jawline before nipping his neck. “I can't take this emotional shit and now you've got me awake.” 

Connor sits back, an amused grin on his pretty lips. He licks them knowingly, his mouth parting delicately. “Oh really?” 

“Yup. Wide awake.” Hank offers his hand out and together they stand and make their way to the bedroom. 

Hank doesn't really understand himself sometimes. He just knows that the best way to forget about something is to feel as good as possible. And Connor makes him feel good. Real good. So he yanks Connor by the soft cotton pants he's in and wastes no time in shoving his pretty android to the bed. 

Connor obeys, yelping in delight. He leans up on his elbows to watch Hank move between his legs. “You don't hav—”

“Shh, I wanna put my mouth on you.” 

Connor lets himself relax into the bed with a delicate sigh. His arm tosses over his eyes, neck arching. It's a gorgeous display of trust and Hank doesn't want to think anymore on it. Because Hank has bad habits, and he should feel guilty for using Connor's programming against him, but Hank's never _ever_ declared himself as a good person. He's certainly not going to start here. 

He takes Connor out of his sleep-pants, kissing up the base of the softest cock he's ever touched. Connor has skin like silk. Supple, soft, silken skin. His designer crafted him with love, and maybe a bit of self-indulgence. Because _god damn_. 

Connor lets out a gasp, his fingers coming to tangle in Hank's hair. His hips make the tiniest little jerks forward. His need, his eagerness—it's so beautiful to get lost in. 

Hank lets his tongue tantalize Connor's tip before giving him a few soft sucks. He opens an eye to watch the way Connor bites his pretty lips. How badly he just wants to tell Connor to turn over and fuck into his supple ass. It makes Hank so hard just thinking about letting Connor ride his dick. About watching it go inside, nice and slow. 

Connor's trembling beneath him, his legs squeezing on either side of Hank's shoulders, hands still firmly tangled in Hank's hair. The sounds he makes— _god_ —the sounds he makes. His mouth is in the shape of an angel's but it's the devil that speaks. Each gasp, the hiccup-like moans. 

Hank let's himself forget that this is an android. He lets himself forget that he's a garbage pile of human shit and when he dies, no one will come to his funeral. He has no friends. His sister is across the globe with a husband and kids he's never seen. There is no one who loves Hank Anderson. And that's what makes Connor so dangerous. Because it's so easy to forget and play along. Because Hank does play along. He wants to. He's tired of facing the world alone. He's tired of bottling himself up until he's drunk and staring down at the barrel of a gun. 

“H-Hank! Hank I'm—I'm coming—I'm—f—ah—ah!” 

Hank sucks his pretty boy through it, massaging at Connor's seizing balls. A sweetness spurts into Hank's mouth that reminds him of honey and almonds. He lets it slide down his throat as he continues to bob his head up and down. 

Connor's a good boy, his body whatever Hank needs it to be. And right now, Hank just wants to let spit pool around the base of Connor's cock so Connor can't tell that Hank is crying.

 

* * *

 

Hank comes home to a house right out of an HGTV magazine. If they have magazines. Hank's not really sure. Orange and purple lights hang from the exterior. There's a giant inflatable spider crawling off the porch looking like it's about to attack the graveyard that exudes fog up into the air. The inside though, the inside is what Hank's impressed with. 

Connor has strung up twinkling orange lights, has replaced the ceiling fan's light with a black light and the room glows with menacing and exciting adventures. There's a cauldron surrounded by a menagerie of candles. Potions and spell-books line the bookshelves. Glow in the dark hand prints line the walls enticing lost souls further and further in. 

Hank finds Connor in the kitchen. He's putting jars of “brains” and “hearts” up on the bar and Hank smirks when Connor nearly drops a floating hand in a jar. 

“Reflexes need a tune up?” Hank asks as he comes into the room.

“I haven't calibrated in awhile. I haven't broken anything yet though.” He sets the jar with the hand inside up next to the brains and then grabs a jar of eyes. They look as gooey and invasive as Hank would expect a jar of eyes to look.

“So when I check my bank account...” Hank doesn't even want to finish the sentence. He already knows.

“I may have gone overboard, but in my defense, it's my first Halloween and you said I could.” Connor turns around, wincing. “But if you need me to take things back, I will. Just please not the cauldron and candles.” 

“I don't want you to take anything back, Connor. It's okay.” Hank holds his hands out like he's attempting to placate a frightened animal. “Bad execution of a bad joke.” 

Connor visibly relaxes and grabs a battery powered string of purple lights. Effortlessly, he threads the lights around the jars and tests them a few times, rearranging the lights every time he flicks them back on. 

“It's a shame we don't have anyone to show off the house to.” Hank sits down at the table and rolls his shoulders. He had a day full of chasing some teenage shit who thought tagging a police car was an acceptable way to spend his day. Hank's getting too old for chases. 

“We could have a party?” Connor suggests.

Hank barks out a laugh. He doesn't mean to sound so brittle about it, but the thought is just—him? Having a party? A Halloween party? With stupid vampire and witch costumes and—people? He bellows out another laugh just thinking about him being a host. 

But Connor isn't laughing. He's watching Hank with his brows furrowed and a downturn to his lovely lips. Hank doesn't like seeing his lips look so sad. 

“A Halloween party? Con—I dunno. I'm not exactly _likable_. I don't even know who I'd invite.”

“Ben? Chris from the precinct and Chris and Abigail?”

“A party is supposed to have more people than just six?” Hank makes a quick show of counting on his fingers at all who'd be there. “Yeah, six.” 

“You could invite others from your work. Just—I'd prefer if Gavin didn't attend. He unnerves me.” 

Hank snorts. “Tell me about it.” It would be nice if the conversation could end there with just the silly suggestion of a party, but Connor looks about the room with a forlorn expression. His fingers twitch at his sides and that damn mouth of his just—it begs without meaning to.

“Would it make you happy if we had a party?”

Connor moves in close and presses a soft kiss to Hank's lips. Feather-light and sweet. Hank remembers why he struggles so hard with walking this line with Connor. Because it feels so damn good to be adored in the way Connor adores Hank. To adore him right back. Hank wishes he could throw his brain into a jar too so he didn't have to think about why Connor is here in the first place. 

“I would be very happy, Hank. I don't need something large. I just want—I just want to experience it. With you. Hosting a party.”

“Well don't get any bright ideas about Christmas. One party a year.” 

Connor's face breaks into a beaming smile. He presses a firmer kiss on Hank's lips and then he's back to his decorations, twirling and humming a tune that sounds like _Superstition_.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Hank crawls into bed, exhausted and a little tipsy from the booze he had during dinner. The best part about Connor's cooking is it won't actually get Hank fat. He's too smart to use carbs and apparently carbs are the devil incarnate when it comes to foods. Turnips taste pretty much just like potatoes, so Hank's not complaining any. 

Connor filters into the room. His chest is bare and exposed, a pair of boxers resting on his hips. Hank watches him, caught in the moment. This incredible being, a wonder of modern technology and a gentle soul. Because Hank doesn't know if God is real or what happens when he dies—but he believes that if there's anything, Connor deserves it too. All he is _is_ goodness. 

Connor gets onto the bed, on all fours, and comes over to Hank to press a minty kiss to Hank's lips. He runs his tongue along Hank's bottom lip and it takes all Hank's effort not to moan like a teenager. When Connor pulls back, his face is smug. 

“What?” Hank asks. He drops the tablet he was reading onto the comforter. 

“Nothing. I'm just happy.” Connor snuggles into the blankets by Hank's side. His soft skin is warm and smooth. No hairs line his legs like Hank's. No facial hair needs shaving. He'll always be boyish and handsome. 

It's not jealousy that Hank feels. Nostalgia, yes. He feels a lot of that. He too used to be handsome, but never boyish. Hank has always been hard lines and even harder eyes. Connor is the exact opposite. Softness, curves and gentleness. 

“Hank, I was wondering something.” 

“Hmm?” Hank quirks a brow up. 

“I was wondering if you had an opinion on cockwarming.”

“Cock what-ing?” 

“Warming.” Connor blinks, like he's astounded Hank doesn't have the slightest clue as to what he's referencing. Like he's sprouting a third head. 

“Which is?” 

“Oh.” Connor's eyes go round. “It's, prolonged fellatio that doesn't require you to be erect. I've been doing research and it's suggested it's comforting for both parties. Like an intimate, unique connection. I was wondering if perhaps you wouldn't mind me,” Connor shrugs, “falling asleep with your cock in my mouth.” 

“Jesus.” Hank slams his head back into the wall. “Jesus, Jesus, _Jesus_!” 

“So that's a no?”

“I don't, fuck, I don't know what it is, Connor.” 

“Well we haven't had our third date yet, and I know that's when we're supposed to have sex properly, but the idea of a deeper intimate experience between you and I sounds comforting. And I'd like to experience it.” 

“By shoving a soft cock into your mouth?” Hank can't decide if he wants to eat his own dick off to make this conversation end, or rip his pants off and let Connor take whatever he wants. Connor's voracious sexual needs vastly overpower Hank's. Hank's older and past his prime. Keeping up is difficult. He can get there, and he proudly can tote an erection without taking medicine (for now), but he doesn't have the ability to just—do this. He gets stage fright. 

“It's not the fact that it's a penis, nor if it's flaccid or not. It's the idea of bonding between us.”

“You think this will, make us closer?” Hank's jaw drops. 

“I mean, I don't know. But I'd like to try. I'll try anything if it gets us closer.” 

And that's the line that makes Hank freeze up. When Connor feels like Hank is slipping away, when they have nights like when Hank blew him while crying—Connor knows—whether he tells Hank or not. The night by the fire when Connor voiced that he accepted Hank's distance. It'd been a lie. A plea to make Hank think about it and _wake the fuck up_. Connor often doesn't vocalize what he wants, sometimes it's a whisper of his fingers at Hank's wrist. A jaunty tune on the record player. A trip to the park. Connor speaks in more than just spoken word. This is just one of those moments too. 

“So you're not gonna like, suck or anything, right?”

“Not if you don't want me to. I will though if you'd like.”

“No. Uh, I mean not right now.”

Connor nods, smiling. “Would you pet my hair too? When we do this?” He's moved closer and Hank can feel the heat coming from his skin. Hank could reach out and touch him, feel the gentle vibrations of his fans working in overdrive. He really wants this. It's written across his face, etched into his skin and humming in his bones. 

“S-sure.” Hank's never felt more naked than this moment, and his pants are still fully on. 

Connor shuffles down the bed and gets himself between Hank's legs beneath the sheets. 

Hank looks around the room, waiting for Connor's fingers to pull him out, for his tongue to be wet and warm. His lips.

Hank gasps when Connor's mouth wraps around him. He slips his hand beneath the sheets to do what Connor wanted, stroking his fingers lazily back and forth in Connor's hair. Connor, true to his word, doesn't suck. He just latches on and settles his face against Hank's thigh. Hank can even feel his eyelashes caress skin when he closes them. 

He isn't sure he won't just get hard from this. Whether he should be embarrassed about popping a boner in this situation, he has no clue. But he likes it. He can feel Connor's simulated breathing. He likes threading his fingers into Connor's hair and giving him scratches all the way to his neck. It is—intimate. Like Connor had said. Something inside Hank wakes up and he can feel himself growing more and more protective of Connor. 

All Connor wants to do is love Hank. And Hank, he doesn't exactly know what he's doing. But he cares, oh he cares so much for Connor it stings his eyes. He rests his head back, still stroking his fingers through Connor's hair. Connor sometimes suckles softly at Hank's cock before nuzzling down. 

Hank presses a firm palm to the back of Connor's head to settle him. He's too tired to think about rocking up into Connor's mouth and fucking. He's warm too, warm and content with the presence so close to him. Cockwarming. Well he'll be damned.

 

* * *

 

Hank has a headache. To make matters worse, he's at work. He rubs at his temples groaning when he receives no release from the pain behind his forehead. Sighing, he gets up and heads for the breakroom. A cup of coffee and a few tablets of asprin and he may be right as rain in an hour or two. 

Gavin sleuths his way in after Hank. He's alone, which is unusual. Considering Gavin is always flanked by some stupid cop who thinks being friends with Gavin is better than being his enemy. The guy's all talk though, Hank's had his share of men he didn't want to be around—Gavin is a puppy compared to them. 

“Yes?” Hank asks. Not because he wants to, but because he knows Gavin won't stop following him around all creepy-like without some form of acknowledgment. 

“Your android.” 

Hank's eyes narrow. Gavin should be incredibly cautious how he proceeds with this, or Hank is going to deck him right here and now. 

“You ever see other models of him walking around?” 

“I work and I go home. Can't say that I have.” He drops two cubes of sugar into his coffee and stirs it around. “Why?” He probably shouldn't be enticing Gavin, but Hank's curious where Gavin is going with this. 

“I saw one. He was all sloppy over this guy.”

Hank cocks a brow. 

Gavin stares at the floor for a moment before scrunching up his nose. “He do that too? Get in your lap and pretend like he can't get enough of you?”

“Okay.” Hank stops leaning on the counter and walks across the room. “The best part about being a lieutenant is that I don't have to deal with your bullshit.” 

“It's sick and you know it, Hank. You know they're designing those freaks to replace us, right?”

Hank doesn't respond. Truthfully, he does know CyberLife is looking into creating androids with police skills that could far surpass any human. And that's the point of them, they're better. Humans get sick, humans age, they get distracted or get too tired. Androids don't. Every field out there androids could do better. The only thing wrong with it is that when the androids take over all the jobs, how will the humans feed themselves? Hank just hopes he can retire before then. Then it'll be some other poor sap's problem. 

When he gets back to his desk, his phone has a notification from Connor. He opens it up, choking on his latest slug of coffee. Connor is clad in nothing but a bowtie shaped like a bat, dick hard in his hand and lips perfectly sinful. The little caption beneath the image says _I need to pick a Halloween costume for our party._

Hank slides his fingers over his phone and starts typing away. His cheeks are hot. _You know birthday suits aren't acceptable, right?_

Almost immediately, Connor texts back: _This isn't a birthday suit. I wasn't born and this is an additional layer atop my endoskeleton._

Hank rolls his eyes. Connor still needs to learn how to flirt. He ducks his phone beneath his desk as another officer walks by. When he thinks it's safe, he pulls out the picture again. Connor's fucking lips—who even designed that mouth? Did they kiss it to know just how perfect it is? Because Hank can't think of another pair of lips that are as soft and kissable as Connor's. 

 _I haven't invited anyone over yet_ , Hank texts.

_I already e-mailed Ben and Chris (from work). Chris (Abigail's) will be notified via Abigail, as I've already notified her as well._

Hank grumbles. There's no getting out of a Halloween get-together now. Unless everyone decides not to show up. Hank's first instinct is to laugh at the idea, even hope for it. But then he remembers that's not who he is but what he's lied about being. He'd be quite depressed if all the people he felt the closest to (which isn't saying much) didn't show up. 

 _Anyone tell you they're coming?_ Because Hank can't stomach the idea of hearing that Ben or Chris (from work) said they couldn't. _When are we even having a party?!_

Connor sends another selfie. This time he's wearing nothing but a gold spandex speedo. 

 _I could be Rocky. You liked this movie when you were younger_. 

The Rocky Horror Picture Show was an experience, that was for certain. Hank may or may not have been in the cast as a young and dumb eighteen-year-old. Though he does attribute his sexual awakening to bisexuality with Tim Curry's legs. 

_If people from work are gonna be there, wear something that covers your nipples!_

Enough time goes by that Hank fears Connor is either searching for a proper Halloween costume or he was unsatisfied with Hank's response. The latter puts more turmoil in Hank's belly than he'd been prepared to handle. He can barely focus on his report (which is naturally, due today). But Hank's phone does eventually chirp and he grabs it quickly.

_What about this?_

Connor is still in the speedo but he's put nipple pasties over his nipples. Hank snorts, trying to stifle his laughter.

_Don't you dare! Where did you even get those!_

_I came with them! Didn't you look into my box? I have accessories!_

Hank is half tempted to ask what other accessories Connor came with, but Ben comes into his line of sight with a hard-faced expression. He looks up at his friend, quirking a brow. 

“A girl's been murdered. C'mon.”

“Jesus.” Hank tucks his phone away and heads out.

 

* * *

 

When Hank comes home, he realizes something is very out of place. The Halloween décor is immaculate, naturally, but that's not what's out of place. He sees Connor's box in the middle of the living room. That big white tower with its salacious words screaming at him in their large all-capital font. 

“Connor?” Hank asks into the unusually quite house. It reminds him of the days when no one was here to fill the space with music and banter. He feels unnerved, cautiously moving about the rooms, his fingers tracing over the couch to the tall tower itself. 

Connor is inside, his eyes closed. His face is expressionless but there's a peaceful quality to it. Hank frowns, stepping closer. Connor's eyes snap open and Hank stumbles backwards.

“JESUS!” He clutches his chest and has to brace himself against the wall. “What the fuck, Connor!” 

“It's my Halloween costume.” Connor gets out of the box. He's wearing skintight black pants that show off _everything_. “You don't use me like a sexbot. More of a companion.” 

“I don't use you at all! You're just—we're friends.” 

Connor tilts his head to the side with a smirk. “Only friends, Hank?” 

Hank's heart flutters and he hates himself. He looks away, suddenly bashful. Connor stands in a flowing white shirt and those stupid pants and yet he's the most beautiful thing Hank's ever seen. But Hank can't own him. Even if he actually does. He can't feel like he does. Or this whole thing just goes up in flames and Hank will find himself with a barrel of a gun next to his eyes. And then what would happen to Connor? If Hank was gone? Would he just be wiped clean and sold to the next guy at a discount? The thought physically pulls at Hank's heart. 

Connor must sense Hank's anguish because he frowns and ushers Hank over to the couch. He laces his fingers with Hank's and kisses his face, soft and sweet. Again and again. “Hank.” 

Hank looks up with his dopey eyes and just waits. He can't bring himself to say anything. He hasn't done anything. There's no gun, no trigger, no bullet. But he can't shake the fear he feels, like it's a dream he can't stop. Connor, confused when he can't find Hank. The shock. The fear when he sees the blood. The anguish. A whole new kind of fear when he's discovered and they take him away. When they find out that he's not like other androids. When he's just too different or too alive for another human's comfort. When he's beaten and raped by someone he doesn't want to belong to. 

“Fuck,” Hank hisses out. He clutches Connor close. His spine hurts from the position but he won't let go. He clings like his life depends on it, like _Connor's_ life depends on it. They'll be swallowed up by the sky and then the universe itself if they part. 

“Are you okay, Hank?” Connor asks softly. “Your heart,” he reaches out to touch Hank's chest, “is beating so quickly.” 

“Yeah. Just had an old man moment.”

Connor frowns. “You're not that old, Hank. And I've been ensuring you're eating better.” 

“So that's your Halloween costume? Hank asks. 

Connor's eyes search Hank's. He knows Hank is lying—it's written on his own face. But Hank knows he won't press. There are certain things that Connor has realized he can't just barrel into. Himself, surprisingly, being one of them. 

“A proper sexbot. I'll be dressed just like this so I won't be scantily clad, but I've read Halloween is a time where people can dress salaciously and not receive judgment. I'd like to dress in a way that's appealing to you. And your friends.” 

“My friends? You mean the people I work with?”

Connor shrugs. “Is it wrong, wanting to be wanted?”

Hank frowns. He runs his fingers up and down Connor's upper arms. “I want you, Connor.” 

“I know that.” Connor is unblinking. “But it's human nature to want to be wanted. Even if you're already, taken. I want everyone to want me. And by proxy, I want them to envy you for having me.” 

Hank smirks. There's Connor thinking in ways he shouldn't again. Hank would ask CyberLife if this was intentional if he wasn't so convinced they have no damn idea what they put out on the market. The only way Hank could even get a guess on what they knew would be to meet another Connor. But he doesn't want to. He thinks of the one Gavin came in contact with. He's not exactly sure why Gavin would've been around someone with a sexbot, but he won't judge. Hanging off people. Hornier than a dog in heat. Sloppy. 

Connor is anything but sloppy. He's poised and delicate. Efficient. Effortless. Dignified. Certainly not _sloppy_. But wanting to be a proper sexbot, whatever that means, for Halloween—does he want to be sloppy? 

“Con—I know I'm not what you—expected.” 

Connor cocks a brow. 

“If you need—to get out some urges—or whatever—maybe it'd—” 

“Are you suggesting I have multiple partners?” 

Hank looks away. But the answer is all over the discomfort of his face. Tense in the lines that have hardened him, lurking in the downturn of his eyes. 

“Please don't mistake my desire to be—slutty—as a sign that I don't want to be with you. I only want to be with you, Hank.” Connor brushes his nose against Hank's. He ghosts a kiss down to Hank's lips and his tongue is slipping out of his warm mouth. Silken and sweet. 

Hank feels vastly inadequate. But it's too good to let himself pull away. He thinks of his pores. His sweat. If he doesn't brush his teeth that he could get a mouth full of bacteria and cavities. Connor's mouth is sanitary and it always tastes good. It's soft and everything that Hank wishes his own mouth could feel like for Connor. 

“Hank,” Connor says. “You stopped kissing me back.” 

“What? Oh. Shit.” Hank runs a hand through his hair and pulls back. He can see the dissatisfaction in Connor's pouted lips. “I'm sorry. I've just got all these thoughts in my head.” 

“Are you—getting bad again?” Connor asks. 

“No. Or, I don't think so.” He tries to offer a smile but it comes out strained and grimacing. “Do you need me to get anything from the store before the party?” 

Connor allows himself to be deterred from what bothers Hank, because he's so damn acute that it's terrifying. He could take over the world if he had the desire for it. It astounds Hank that the only thing Connor seems to want is affection, and from him of all people.

 

* * *

 

Connor's party sparkles with mischief and appropriate party-favors. He's got games for everyone to play, snacks designed by his own hands that look like a master chef created them and the music is roaring. 

Chris and Abigail are the first ones to show up. They bring wine and are dressed as Batman and Batgirl. Hank doesn't like the idea of Batgirl dating Batman based on his beloved reads of the comics, but he understands the sentiment. 

Connor is dressed in that flowing white top and pants that hug his ass so much it leaves nothing to the imagination. He has his box in a corner of the room that he says it's for taking _selfies_ with people later. 

Chris (from work) shows up next. He's a firefighter—only the kind sans the shirt. Suspenders carefully hide his nipples and cling to pants hung ultra low. “Connor said it was okay to be sexy so—always wanted to show up to a party like this.” He's one of the first people to take selfies with Connor and his box. 

Hank laughs, watching them from where he nurses a bottle of beer on the sofa.

Ben shows up as Dr. Einstein. Fowler even makes an appearance, though he says he can't stay since he has to go to his wife's sister's party too. A few others from the station show up. 

Suddenly Hank doesn't see across his living room as easily as he thought he would. Bodies swarm the room. The windows are fogging up from the humidity of all of them here together. Connor keeps making sure the music is just the right volume and speed. He dances a lot, laughing as Chris (from work) holds out his cell phone to take a picture of them by the severed hand floating in the punch. Abigail takes a few with him too, her giant glued-on lashes tickling his cheeks so he smiles wider and wider. 

“Quite the party,” Ben says. 

“I had nothing to do with it.” Hank has found himself in a corner with Ben as they both try to move away from the pulsing music and laughter. 

“So, what are you supposed to be?” Ben asks.

“Me? I'm The Dude.” Hank gestures to his robe and shaggy hair. “You know, _The Big Lebowski._ ”

Ben shrugs. 

“Christ. It's a movie from when we were kids. Jeff Bridges was The Dude.” 

“I remember Jeff Bridges!” Ben says delightfully. 

Hank is about to school Ben in culture when the door opens. Gavin, flanked by a few more officers come into the house. They look around, Gavin first meets Hank's gaze and smirks. Then he looks over to where Connor is dancing with Abigail and Chris (Abigail's boyfriend). So much hatred in a man so short. 

Connor doesn't let an uninvited guest ruin his party. He turns away and says something into Abigail's ear—and she promptly laughs and together they swing around and around. Chris there to make sure nothing breaks. 

“Did he get an invite?” Ben asks.

“Nope.” Hank sighs, looking down at his socked feet. “Guess he heard about it.” 

Connor finds his way through everyone and to Hank. He presses his lips to Hank's, his whole body sliding against in close and Han feels everything. “Come take pictures with me!” 

“I'm not a big photo fan, Con.” 

Ben winks and goes to find someone else to speak with. Which only serves to deflate Hank's shoulders because he doesn't want to go take pictures. All pictures do is remind him that he's aging and imperfect where Connor is ageless and perfect. Jealousy. Hank is jealous of Connor. Of youth. 

“Please? It'd mean a lot to me if we could start creating memories together.” 

“We do create memories. Every day.” 

Connor's expression deflates. “Hank. That's not the same. I want something I can show people. Like photo albums or on social media.” 

The thought of Connor online suddenly terrifies Hank. A cam boy, an Instagram hoe—maybe he gets a following of foot fetish people. “Do you have social media?” he asks.

Connor shakes his head. “I was saying for your own. I know you do. But I'd like a photo album. One I can hold.” 

Hank allows himself to be lured into the middle of the party. His costume, while comfortable, doesn't seem to go recognized by many people. He has to explain it to at least five people on the way to the fireplace for a photo. 

Connor gives Hank's phone to Chris (from work) and they get a few pictures standing by the fireplace with all its twinkling purple lights and spiders that hang off webs all along it. Connor asks to do a playful one, a romantic one, a regular one. Chris laughs as he pretends to be giving them a photoshoot. Hank is deeply uncomfortable and he's sure it'll show in the pictures. He grips Connor's waist, wanting nothing more than to carry his android boyfriend out of this room and up into the quiet of the floor above. He's longed for a loud house for so long—and now he has it. Because of Connor. And now all he wants is just some peace and quiet _with_ Connor. 

“Beer pong! Beer pong! Beer pong!” Gavin and a few others start chanting. They make their way into the kitchen and begin clearing off the table in the middle of the room for the game. Hank moves to stop them but Connor's hand wraps around his wrist. 

“I'm glad they're having fun, Hank. I hope this changes Detective Reed's perception of me.” 

“Or it just makes it worse.” All Hank can think about is when Gavin called the other Connor _sloppy_. 

“Well then I'll go play a game with them.” Connor moves before Hank has the ability to register what he said. And certainly way before Hank's big hand is able to reach out and grasp absolutely nothing but fake cob webs and a plastic spider. Connor's already in the kitchen, asking to be part of the team _against_ Gavin. 

Hank weaves through the crowd of people. He's stopped by Chris (Abigail's boyfriend) who asks him about something he doesn't actually hear because he excuses himself and heads straight for the kitchen once more. He hangs by the assortment of jarred body parts. 

“Come to watch your boytoy get creamed, old man?” Gavin asks with a venomous smirk. 

Hank doesn't respond. He just shrugs and purses his lips. 

Gavin goes first. He gets a little plastic ball into one of the cups with ease and Chris (from work) has to down the drink because Connor can't. 

“This is gonna be unfair though! He can't drink!” a female cop exclaims beside Gavin. 

“I can too drink.” Connor moves beside Hank and grabs a bottle of whiskey before taking a deep pull from it. He wipes his mouth and loudly clanks the bottle back on the bar. 

Hank forgot that he can _sample_ food and drink. Escort-mode. Or whatever. 

“But can you get drunk?” Gavin asks. “Otherwise you're at an advantage, tin-man.”

“You said I could play. You didn't stipulate to anything regarding inebriation before.” 

“C'mon, man,” Chris (from work) says. “Let's just play.” 

So they do. Connor does drink when Gavin gets the ball into the cup. He cheers and high-fives Chris when they get Gavin and his partner to drink as well. The red solo cups on the table start getting fewer and fewer. 

Hank watches how Connor grabs onto the table for balance. He sways from side to side, but his gaze is glued to Gavin. Gavin, who is cheering along with the little crowd he's amassed, all-too eager to listen as they chant his name. Hank wonders if he'll be able to leave the house with a head that big. 

He lines up to shoot and—misses. “Damn it!” 

The crowd boos. 

Connor grabs a ball of his own and closes an eye to aim and—he loses his balance, stumbling down and crashing into the floor. 

Hank yanks himself from his spot and drops to his knees to pull Connor into his arms. “Connor? Connor what's wrong!” 

“He's drunk,” Abigail says. “Thirium can be thinned by alcohol when it mixes in our bloodstreams.” 

“I'm sorry—what?” Hank barks out. He opens one of Connor's eyes and sees it swim around in the socket. “Jesus.”

“He must've overfilled his waste receptacle and willingly deterred the alcohol into his bloodstream. He's not drunk like a human—but his blood is too thin and impure. He needs fresh blue blood. I suspect his joints aren't working properly, which is why he fell down.”

Gavin is laughing from across the table. “The fuckin' android got drunk! No fuckin' way! No fuckin' way!” 

Hank growls but he picks Connor up bridal-style and he and Abigail head upstairs. He gets Connor into their bed— _their_ bed. 

“Do you have any spare bags of thirium?” Abigail asks. She stares at Hank with dark, dead eyes. 

Unnerved, Hank points to the closet and watches as Abigail moves. Everything about her movement is designed by someone. Connor moves with his own gait, but Abigail? She's all simulated. Someone who watched a woman walk designed her. She didn't design herself. Not like how Connor has. 

She comes back and begins to undress Connor's top half. 

“Woah—what're you—”

“I need to empty his waste receptor so that I can have him begin allowing his diluted blood to filter into it so that new blood may enter and be pure.” 

“I should leave.” Hank isn't sure he's ready for the body horror that comes with androids just yet. 

“N-no,” Connor says softly. He reaches out a trembling hand, his eyes glossy and puffy. “Please stay.” 

Hank couldn't say no to that even if he tried. So he comes back over, grimacing and watching Abigail's calculated movements. 

Connor's shirt is spread out around him, his fans buzzing loudly—the only noise in the room aside from Hank's beating heart. He looks up at Hank pitifully. He's uncomfortable, possibly embarrassed. Hank can see so many emotions filter into his face. Fear—being the biggest. 

“It's okay,” Hank says when Abigail opens Connor's chest. He tries so hard not to look, but curiosity takes over. He looks and it's almost too much for his mind to comprehend. Connor, his beautiful, living Connor is a husk for metal and fancy pipe working. He looks like the inside of a toilet wrapped by a computer that barfed out its wiring. It's such a harsh change from the beauty of his face, the plushness of his lips—the almond shape of his eyes. Hank has always been painfully aware of Connor's existence. It shouldn't hurt his heart to see this. To hear the click and snap as Abigail removes the waste receptacle and walks out of the room with it. To see the pumps that hiss with Connor's simulated breathing. The blue glow of energy and thirium. It cuts into Hank like a a cold rusted knife. The lie that is his life spills more—its sticky truth open for the world to see. For Hank to see. How can Connor be alive? When he's made of metal and plastic? How can there be a soul?

“You're sweating,” Connor says. It's the blunt side of a hammer and Hank recoils from it. 

“Just never seen the inside of an android before.” 

“But you've seen the inside of a human.”

“Well, sure. I'm in homicide.” 

“Hank—what I mean is, you don't sweat when you look at a dead human. I'm not even dead and you look sheet white and clammy.” Connor reaches up a hand, still shaking. He touches Hank's face and frowns. “You're cold too.” 

“I'm just—surprised. That's all.” Surprised. A fancy word for uncomfortable. But startled gives a negative connotation and Hank doesn't want to tip Connor off on what he's thinking. 

Abigail comes back and puts Connor's waste receptacle back inside. She closes up Connor and Hank finds the tiny line on Connor's belly where he opens up—right at the bellybutton. 

Hank reaches out before Abigail can close Connor's shirt and pinches some of Connor's skin. It's soft and malleable—warm even. 

Abigail hands Connor a bottle of deep blue liquid. He cracks the bottle open at the cap and brings it to his lips. His Adam's apple even bobs with each pull of the tacky liquid. He swallows it all down until the bottle is left with only blue residue. Abigail takes the bottle and smiles. 

It unnerves Hank more than seeing Connor's body open and exposed. 

“He should feel better in moments. I can leave you two.” 

“No it's—” Hank begins to say.

“Please.” Connor's voice is louder than Hank's. He turns his focus on Hank, brows pulled down, lips pouted. His eyes are big—Hank wonders if they're bigger than they usually are or if the light is playing a trick on him. Either way, he feels for that look. That innocent, scared look. 

Abigail leaves without saying a single thing more. 

“I've disturbed you.” Connor's voice doesn't waver. He stares at his toes, face unreadable now. Like someone flipped a switch in his body. “Humans don't exactly open their chests to each other.” 

Hank scratches at his neck. “Not without some seriously extensive surgery, no.” 

“I know you struggle with what I am. I think you always will. I don't blame you for it. Humans are programmed to see androids as threats. Or inferior.” 

“Connor, I don't see you—”

“But you do, Hank. You see me as something second-rate. A replacement for a human you can't get. You always have.” Connor smiles sadly. “But it's okay. I accept that place in your life. If it means I'm in your life at all.” 

Hank's eyes sting. There's a wall that builds between them. It snaps up instantly and all Hank wants to do is rush forward and break it down. But it fortifies and it fortifies. He can't jump. He can't climb. He watches Connor, sitting quietly on his bed—and all Hank can feel is that they're miles and miles apart. Separated by a wall that has another name—society. Society has programmed Hank. Because no matter how many steps forward he may take with Connor. No matter the moments where he lets it be okay. He always slips back to this—this awareness that whispers in the back of his head. _He's_ not worthy enough of human companionship. It's not Connor's fault. It's Hank's. 

He's an untouchable. And he's reminded of that each time he sees Connor's LED. His own failings. His own downfall. It's never been about Connor. It's always been about Hank. And that's the worst bit. Hank doesn't see Connor as an equal. Otherwise he wouldn't feel this way. It shames him. He adjusts awkwardly on the bed, hanging his head like a guilty man hangs his. Connor is just happy to be by Hank's side. However that may be. He's devoted and utterly chained to Hank. And he's happy about it. Or at least Hank believes Connor is happy. At least he's been happy. Hank can't guarantee Connor is happy now—not with the way Hank has handled this Halloween party. 

Connor's hand covers Hank's. He sighs and leans his head back on the headrest. “I feel better. I apologize for embarrassing you.” 

“You didn't embarrass me. I was worried about you.” 

Connor smiles, though it doesn't reach his eyes. He reminds Hank of Abigail in that moment. And that's the odd thing. Hank can see dead eyes. He can see when there's no life behind them. Abigail doesn't hold the life that Connor does. So it's not Hank just making it up or being biased. Connor really is different from most androids. 

“Would you mind if I stayed up here for the rest of the party? I know I'm the host, but I don't much feel like facing them again. Not after what happened.” 

Hank doesn't relish the idea of facing that sea of people without Connor, but he wouldn't ask Connor to go back. And he knows Connor would do it. He'd put on a brave face and power through if Hank asked it of him. 

“Sure. You deserve an early night. You've had a big day.” He means to get up and prepare to face the questions down below but Connor grips his hand. He waits, a brow cocked in anticipation. 

“Kiss me, please.” 

Hank leans forward and places a soft kiss to Connor's sweet lips. Connor wants Hank. Hank wants Connor. It's a damn shame Hank isn't the person Connor deserves. A damn shame. 

Connor is smiling when they pull away from each other. He nestles back into the bed and brings the covers up around him. “I hope the party doesn't last for too much longer. I'd like to spend some time with you tonight too.” 

“I'll kick 'em out soon enough.” Hank smiles at Connor's pretty face once more and leaves the room. His heart heavy with the guilt of what he'd thought about. Selfish. Selfish. _Selfish_. He isn't much fun to be around for the remainder of the party, but he tries, for Connor. Because it's the least he can do is ensure everyone has a good time—because Connor would want them to remember this night fondly.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me and come talk to me!!  
> On Twitter: [@ghostbuckster](https://twitter.com/ghostbuckster)
> 
> On Tumblr:  
> [bibijaal (gaming blog)](http://bibijaal.tumblr.com/) or  
> [buckmebxrnes (main blog)](http://buckmebxrnes.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Interest? Like it? Questions? Idk let me know your thoughts!
> 
> Find me and come talk to me!!  
> On Twitter: [@ghostbuckster](https://twitter.com/ghostbuckster)
> 
> On Tumblr:  
> [bibijaal (gaming blog)](http://bibijaal.tumblr.com/) or  
> [buckmebxrnes (main blog)](http://buckmebxrnes.tumblr.com/)


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